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“What Hides Is the Brides.”

Nobody actually said that. It was
barely a misreading. But that night
my bones were bored of feisty, fun
falls by the wayside (where seashells

are sold). Be bold, I thought. I could
see the light. And it was past seven
thirty in the evening. We would have
just called this night were it not the

middle of summer, and the mos
quitoes were hanging low (we al
way think we can hear the whine
of their buzz) with the humidity

that’s stuffed into the hot bubble
that sits upon the earth and is as
tall as we are (maybe five feet
three, at best?). We don’t think

much of brides. Well, I certainly
don’t. Perhaps the twins do. For
all I know, Ginger does. Being
one, taking one, how would I have

known the difference, even as
the oldest? I was reading of the
dream-colored sex of Robert
Heinlein’s blob-creatures. Or

were they asexual? Those
were definitely orgasms that
were happening, rest assured.
That’s my recollection, and how

could one forget? My book was
lying on my bed, the one that if you
peeked over the vinyl off-colored
white headboard through the window-

screen you’d see the leaves of the
sycamore—the biggest branch of which

I was currently swinging beneath—they’d
flap a bit and star into my face as if they

were reading my mind, should the wind
not be blowing them all silly. Sometimes
at two or three in the morning, a few might
be scritching upon the screen just loud

enough to wake me up, in which case I’d
hop upon my knees and stare out over that
dirty white headboard checking to make sure
the outline of a tornado wasn’t headed directly

toward us from Potato Hill (I’d imagine the
ominous shadow one would leave in the light
of one of Chaffee’s flares, which were flung
into the sky at all hours of the night during

the hottest parts of the summer). Once
assured, I’d gather my covers and the
Afghan Mom made us each of our fav
orite colors (mine had a purple theme),

curl up and sleep until it was time to
get up and get ready for school. No

dreams of future families, much less
any brides, at least for me, as there

would be Civics and Algebra and Phys
ics and Geometry and Band and my
new favorite subject, which I would
scribbled in the journal my granny had

gotten me for Christmas and that I’d
eventually fill from cover to cover with
it. They didn’t have classes specifically
for it, but sometimes it would be covered

tangential to Reading: Teenage Poetry—

which was for sure my favorite subject

for a while starting that September.