By Emma Peng
He’d meet me there at sunset—after fighting work fires and the (mis)fortunes of fate. I’d listen; he’d talk—feet pacing, oil on patched pants—about rappers with gold chains, some players (basketball or baseball?) and their shoes, his brother’s newest girl, and dreams worth keeping but not around here.
He’d dreamed of leaving; I’d finally agreed. Same time, same place, next spring, we’d be free. He’d bring his change, and I’d bring mine. Together, we’d combine into some buried capsule of time.
Same time, same place, but when the sun came up, I realized he and the dream were gone.
It was probably for the best. My mother’s voice. But it might have been an adventure. I would think inside my head.
See? You engaged your audience.