MOSQUITOES SWARM MY CHILDHOOD HOME
Swamp Land Porch in Louisiana
The searing heat of my drink blazes a trail down my throat, while beads of sweat meander down my forehead, a futile plea for respite. I can sense the fleeting moments, precariously balanced before an inevitable splinter beneath my bare feet threatens to peel away more porch paint than my grandmother ever anticipated. Her physical presence has been absent for months now, but her spirit lingers, a soft echo in the wind's sigh or the rhythmic sway of the grass bending to the whim of grandpa's fishing rod off the porch.
The bugs have dwindled since she left us, an emptiness unfilled, a song silenced. Now, her memories are carved deep within those who convene on this porch. Its crimson hues have surrendered to shades of purple, a silent ode to the relentless march of time. I can sense your touch in the boisterous music belting from the neighbors' parade of cars barreling down our street. You've always had a passion for dance, revealing your steps only to the alligators who watched with seemingly rapt attention—though I suspect they were simply biding time for their next feed.
My love for you resonates with the quiet intensity of a tree's love for its roots. It's an unspoken bond, a contentment found in simply being—never straining for more, never settling for less than what is freely given.
The searing heat of my drink blazes a trail down my throat, while beads of sweat meander down my forehead, a futile plea for respite. I can sense the fleeting moments, precariously balanced before an inevitable splinter beneath my bare feet threatens to peel away more porch paint than my grandmother ever anticipated. Her physical presence has been absent for months now, but her spirit lingers, a soft echo in the wind's sigh or the rhythmic sway of the grass bending to the whim of grandpa's fishing rod off the porch.
The bugs have dwindled since she left us, an emptiness unfilled, a song silenced. Now, her memories are carved deep within those who convene on this porch. Its crimson hues have surrendered to shades of purple, a silent ode to the relentless march of time. I can sense your touch in the boisterous music belting from the neighbors' parade of cars barreling down our street. You've always had a passion for dance, revealing your steps only to the alligators who watched with seemingly rapt attention—though I suspect they were simply biding time for their next feed.
My love for you resonates with the quiet intensity of a tree's love for its roots. It's an unspoken bond, a contentment found in simply being—never straining for more, never settling for less than what is freely given.