SUMMER WANES
The last breaths of summer mingled with the cool evening air as Jeremiah and I ran and rustled in his wide, sloped yard. We couldn't have been older than six.
A dog came upon us and wanted to play, but I didn't like dogs at that age, and he hadn't been invited to join. Rough and begging to wrestle, the dog's tongue lolled, his paws beat the grass. I backed away, timid but not frightened. Stirred to game, the dog grew against the red September sun and pressed forward. He batted his paws at my outstretched hands and ran circles when I swung. I backed further, and the dog came, growing still in size and ferocity. Behind me loomed a long, deep ditch, made larger with each step. I found myself at the edge. The dog made one last jump, and I tumbled for hours, surely, bouncing off of rocks and branches, careening around trunks, passing all manner of flora and fauna in my ever-spin. At long last, I found the bottom and landed with a splash in the still, muddy water below.
Jeremiah's mother heard the shouting and ran from the house, towel in hand, to shoo away the dog. She found me in the ditch, and lowered her arm, long and strong and warm, to retrieve me. With soft words and promises, we went into the house, where Jeremiah's mother washed my face and hair. She stripped me of my sodden clothes and dressed me in Jeremiah's own sweater and corduroys. Dinner was soon to be served, but we were treated with hot chocolate to warm away the cold and set right our heartbeats. Together, we ate and played cards, and the food was everything I wanted, and the game was everything I needed.
Later in the evening, my mother came to collect me. I thanked Jeremiah and his mother for the wonderful afternoon and the borrowed clothes, which would be cleaned and returned posthaste. We strolled down the drive as I recounted the day's affair. A cacophony of cicadas trilled from the ditch as we walked to my mother's car. I wanted to tell my mother, but I felt it cruel: I cared very little for corduroys.