Here’s what it’s like to be on the cusp of life. It’s a Louisiana summer evening, suspended between twilight and night, suspended between 6th and 7th grades. Your hands are touching the shoulder blades of a tall girl who’s sitting on the swing in front of you. The swing must have been moving before, but now is still. You were talking before, you must have been, but now there is silence, not even insects buzzing, empty and full of meaning at the same time.
Is the swing part of a swing set, in a playground? Sounds logical, but you don’t remember. This is an intimate, close-up shot. There is only the swing, held up by the chains she has her hands wrapped around. They stretch forever into the sky.
For you, there’s only the shoulder blades of a tall girl, the swing, the curve of her neck, tantalizingly close to your lips. Her hair is cut violently short, and she’s wearing a scoop-neck blouse, so that the entire length of her nape is exposed. You feel a kind of sweet, liquid lethargy running like mercury through your marrow. You have no name for it, but you’ll recognize it years later as languor.
