I cannot say what anyone wore. Were skirts
about the knee? Was it the year of crochet
or of failed pants no matter how we belted?
I remember a black squirrel. Weed killer men
arrived while we slept. You rushed undressed
and though we were soon sheered
the way you stormed back to me I wondered
who had seen you and what
I should ask them. Later that week or the next
you said: where did the squirrels go?
We have the worst answers.
In the passenger seat of a Honda Civic
at dire speed over half New Jersey
I felt weather compel our flight while NPR
considered all things except what we were thinking.
First published on sarahwrotethat.com.
Photos and composite: Sarah Malone