Weightless Carson Peaden

When my aunt travels during the summers, I watch over her home. I cook dinners in the big-bellied kitchen and pour wine in long-stemmed glasses. The days ripen and slice away, wedge by wedge.

Now, I am on the edge of the pool. The horizon is consuming the sun. It leaks from its lips across the sky, orange and pink like the insides of grapefruits.

I strip naked and jump into the depths. The water is heavy and warm from day. I swim sloppy laps and float on my back. The clouds feather above all wispy and thin, a sign of change to come.

The marsh wakens in the distance. Crickets and frogs buzz drunkenly with heat. Boats hum along the curves of the creek, filled with laughing boys headed for islands to drink and fish and wish away their summers.

Usually, I do not exist in the current time. Memories pull me forward and back again. But the pool washes away the weight, the sky scoops it from my chest. My lungs expand. I am not left wanting more