My eyes are dry on these short winter days, and my hair is knotted at the ends, though I wash it well. The buttons of my jeans leave imprints on my skin, and prickly hairs poke at the denim when I shift my position in the armchair. A jam jar sits on the edge of a wooden table, the aroma of blackberry preserves fills the bedroom. I rip off a piece of sourdough bread from a porcelain plate. My teeth wrestle with the bread until it softens enough to swallow. The crumbs scatter onto the dish and the scratched wooden surface of the nightstand. I look outside and watch the wind pick up the leaves, which twirl in circles before scattering back to the ground. They spin like the paper ballerinas floating on a babys mobile. My tiny cousin rests beneath the dancers in her crib, and I trace the lines on her hands until she falls asleep. I return to my hair, brushing out the knots, and I tear them away before opening the window. I release the hairs from my grip and watch the wind carry them.

Four girls perched in a row on the pickup tailgate behind the blueberries are a sight for old eyes on Saturday morning. (Stephen Kessler Farmers Market)............. Sunlight spills across the field Fiona and I face bare feet brushing the earth. Fiona twirls a daisy chain, and I press my palm to my lips stopping words before they slip out. The wind lifts the hems of our dresses. A blue gingham patch marks Fionas the strap mine fastened with a safety pin. A single earring swings from my ear its silver tarnished, but blue and green beads still bright. My left ear is bare and I look out into the grass where the earring fell. The sky fades the world stills. The only sound I can make out is the hum of the cicadas.

When we arrive at Kyles on foot we eat squash and suck on limes. I bike to Iris and Hannas, and we lace up our boots and sip on mango chile margaritas. We put silver on our eyelids and wear the same matte lipstick before stepping into the night. We walk under the highway overpass and through the neighborhoods without street lamps.

Each spring, I bend my fingers in new directions, seeing how far theyll stretch. I squint into the sun when it first touches my face, usually around six, it feels like the afternoon though I know its evening now. Im silent for the wind that interrupts my joy lying in the grass. The blades are brittle no longer stained by the wet residue of dogs bottoms at least thats what I tell myself when my head meets the ground.