Midsummer
On
nights like this we used to swim in the quarry,
the
boys making up games requiring them to tear off the girls' clothes
and
the girls cooperating, because they had new bodies since last summer
and
they wanted to exhibit them, the brave ones
leaping
off the high rocks — bodies crowding the
water.
The
nights were humid, still. The stone was cool and wet,
marble
for graveyards, for buildings that we never saw,
buildings
in cities far away.
On
cloudy nights, you were blind. Those nights the rocks were
dangerous,
but
in another way it was all dangerous, that was what we were
after.
The
summer started. Then the boys and girls began to pair off
but
always there were a few left at the end — sometimes they'd keep watch,
sometimes
they'd pretend to go off with each other like the rest,
but
what could they do there, in the woods? No one wanted to be
them.
But
they'd show up anyway, as though some night their luck would
change,
fate
would be a different fate.
At
the beginning and at the end, though, we were all together.
After
the evening chores, after the smaller children were in bed,
then
we were free. Nobody said anything, but we knew the nights we'd
meet
and
the nights we wouldn't. Once or twice, at the end of summer,
we
could see a baby was going to come out of all that kissing.
And
for those two, it was terrible, as terrible as being alone.
The
game was over. We'd sit on the rocks smoking cigarettes,
worrying
about the ones who weren't there.
And
then finally walk home through the fields,
because
there was always work the next day.
And
the next day, we were kids again, sitting on the front steps in the
morning,
eating
a peach. Just that, but it seemed an honor to have a mouth.
And
then going to work, which meant helping out in the fields.
One
boy worked for an old lady, building shelves.
The
house was very old, maybe built when the mountain was built.
And
then the day faded. We were dreaming, waiting for night.
Standing
at the front door at twilight, watching the shadows lengthen.
And
a voice in the kitchen was always complaining about the heat,
wanting
the heat to break.
Then
the heat broke, the night was clear.
And
you thought of the boy or girl you'd be meeting later.
And
you thought of walking into the woods and lying down,
practicing
all those things you were learning in the water.
And
though sometimes you couldn't see the person you were with,
there
was no substitute for that person.
The
summer night glowed; in the field, fireflies were glinting.
And
for those who understood such things, the stars were sending
messages:
You
will leave the village where you were born
and
in another country you'll become very rich, very powerful,
but
always you will mourn something you left behind, even though
you
can't say what it was,
and
eventually you will return to seek it.
