There are voices in the twilight, an early dusk veils their source; the sounds crystal yet distant, like music from an old gramophone, drifting through the dark; the laughter of children from the schoolyard across the street from where we live, us sitting on the stoop, waiting for the dogs to complete their benediction of the yard before bedtime.
Another summer gone, set a drift in memory, once, those voices were ours, hitting imaginary Home Runs from rocks and baseball bats, circling bases marked by gloves, hats or articles of clothing; basking in the glow of a tumultuous, imaginary crowd lining a phantom Yankee stadium as the real sun stole away leaving only shadow and the stillness of the late summers evening.
This porch has been a seat of reflection for years, surrounded by flowers, hummingbirds will pick at the delphiniums bathed in the soft, overhanging light. Barb and I sat here twelve years ago, after an Artyce catering, drinking Bourbon from a pint jar and deciding we might make a living from this life after all.
Years later we sat and watched that old brown dog lumber across the yard to lie, in that peculiar fashion, softly panting, head erect, belly in the cool grass, front paws crossed, a tiredness in his eyes and you knew, just knew……
Once, my Father stood upon this same porch, gazing into the dark, picking out the familiarities from the voices across the way, youth only knows the infinities of summer, his is a tally of the number remaining, then, taking a pull from his cigarette, he turns away, walks back into the house, the screen door closing softly behind.