Tuesday, May 14, 2013

Youth

I can't remember what sort of party it was, but I remember it was pouring rain. A hot, heavy summer rain since the season hadn't changed yet. It was still stifling enough that some kids were sleeping overnight in the library, the only building on campus with serious air conditioning.

Inside, there was some sort of ridiculous drama. I liked a boy, the first and last boy who wore button downs and khakis I'd ever liked. He was tall and very quiet, and it was easier to think about him than my mom, back in California, sick.

I stepped outside with my drink, dodging couples. Across the way I saw an older woman walking along side her dog. It was old, very old, shuffling with a painful gait. Even from a distance I could see the multiple large tumors bubbling up along his back and down its legs and its many pink bald spots.

The woman walked slowly beside her dog in the downpour, holding her umbrella out over it, in no rush. The loud music came back to me and I felt stupid for being so young.