Cici Bosco

Syrup Summer

It is late May in New England, and the wind in my grandmother’s yard is oozing like syrup. We are at our boiling point, my grandmother and I; we can’t agree on a goddamn thing. I came back east at the start of summer to help, and it seems I’ve done nothing but annoy; it is as if I am a fruit fly. According to her, I have no common sense. According to me, she is as stubborn as the day is long, and, for the past three weeks, the days have never seemed to end. It seems she has left for the morning, and I did not care to ask where she was headed. I am thankful for the solitude. I think I’ll sit down and write.