Weak against the scorching heat today.

“I started to write again,” I offer to the silence. “It feels… good.
Like I’m getting back to something I’d misplaced or … left behind somewhere in childhood.”

“Good.”

"One can always draw fresh material from one’s surroundings.
A few things about summers:
The hot air that greets you when you step outside at night. That the atmosphere licks you."

“What else?”

“Never mind. I guess that’s the only thing.”

“I was surprised when I saw my name on a piece of paper the other day. This person with this name is me? What does that mean, really?”

I give a small laugh.

He stays quiet, examining the small white petals of a Sweet Cecily growing next to the porch. I watch his fingers peel apart the flower, drop them to the ground. I long for a cool drink.

“Terrestrial efflorescence, what does that phrase mean to you?” he suddenly asks.

Brow furrowed, I attempt a response. “Like, the supreme state any of us earthly beings could achieve?”

His mouth breaks into a grin. “Yeah exactly,” he says, nodding.