The rain came to be a refrain that August that would recede like all days into the rearview mirror, an exercise in memory and distance.


One wondered how the tomatoes would ever ripen and how the portulaca would ever dry out, soggy like the rest of the garden and the human inhabitants.


The old man confessed he was ninety-five when he thought he was taking too much time to tender the sale. His wizened hands, a beautiful testament, nimble and lined.


The old woman held her daughter’s hand on the way in and back from the movies. A decade younger than the old man; the daughter prayed the mother would last that long, independent, holding onto the cart while the world whirled by faster.


Technology had become a bitch at times. Sucking precious time for quirks and quarks and human idiosyncrasies that multiplied while one tried to sleep.


They were in deep in their relationship when the ex called to take it all back if she could, but the young man said no, I am moving in a bright direction.


The lesson was coming to fruition with so-and-so. The expensive education finally realized lucrative after a lapse of years.


How they go quicker, cartwheeling through it all, the rain and such grievances for a summer freefall.


There would be adult freeze pops, frozen margaritas and the like to unwind the work treadmill, join a groove, a de-tempo vibe.


The hive mind wanted more honey, less rain, less whine.


Facebook had become the helicopter parent. Twitter a cousin to community. Snapchat, Instagram, and voiceclips—necessary formations.


The House, an utter disaster mess. The other House of language thriving at best.


Gather around, it was time to frolic barefoot in puddles and watery reflections, to jettison sorrows and soothe the postmodern egos.




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