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Hot August Night

I don't remember much about summers in Detroit.

There was the humidity and heat radiating from the concrete porches the people sat on. It seems my youth is the scattered memory of a dream, floating without anchors through my current days. It wasn't always so, but when you leave a place, eventually the place ceases to be real and becomes instead a kind of dream.

I have vague and pleasant memories, spent outdoors, sharing the summer with friends, racing bikes around city blocks, swimming in backyard pools, shagging fly balls for hours at the local ball diamond. They mean something, though the meanings escape me, as the elements of dreams often disappear.

Among the floating memories, though, one memory remains clear:

While friends nearby drank Stroh's beer and Boone's Farm wine, I lay with my first love on a blanket, on the grass at Belle Isle. Pressed close, stroking each other, then with my hand between her warm thighs, together we made what sense we could, reading the stars through the hazy night sky.

Story by:

Charles Varani

18 August 2017