the guez

         I am standing up in the old rowboat, surveying the situation: the trees between the heat of the sky and the shady spot of the lake, the water deep enough for swimming, the rocky outcropping tucked just out of sight of the No Swimming sign. We drift.           “What we need is a rope,” I say.          “I have a rope,” says M.           “You brought rope?”           “Yes, because I am a boy!” Triumphant, he buries his head into his backpack, and I sit back and think about the rhyme, about snails and puppydog tails and some other line that I can’t remember, and how most boys are so much more fun than most girls when it comes to adventures, except for maybe Ange who knows how to build a snowfort and can tell you what trees are safe to eat. I lose myself for a moment, running my hand through the water, thinking about how this boy is more fun than most boys too, listening to the splashing against the side of the boat, watching the dragonflies zip around.           He eme

It makes sense, I guess, that the silences in one part of one's life would cause silences in others. Eight months since I last wrote one of these. Oh the tales I could tell if only I would. But I am moving on, skipping ahead into summer.