I was half past two when we left Arizona in a long moving truck. When I reach back to piece together a memory, all I get are outlines. Outlines of yellow. Outlines of heat. Outlines of dusty. The depth, the stuff that has texture and might create shadow I have to put off to pictures I've seen, movies I've rented. The cab of the truck feels hot, the vinyl sticky. My mother says I fell to heat stroke. Or at least I think she's said that. This morning Auntie comes to watch the boy. When Marina leaves, she asks, "What's the weather like, is it cold?" I don't pay attention to the response. I leave later. Thirty minutes perhaps. When I leave I ask, "what is it like out there? Cold today?" Auntie says it's warm.
I was half past two when we left Arizona in a long moving truck. When I reach back to piece together a memory, all I get are outlines. Outlines of yellow. Outlines of heat. Outlines of dusty. The depth, the stuff that has texture and might create shadow I have to put off to pictures I've seen, movies I've rented. The cab of the truck feels hot, the vinyl sticky. My mother says I fell to heat stroke. Or at least I think she's said that. This morning Auntie comes to watch the boy. When Marina leaves, she asks, "What's the weather like, is it cold?" I don't pay attention to the response. I leave later. Thirty minutes perhaps. When I leave I ask, "what is it like out there? Cold today?" Auntie says it's warm.
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