HOT
I pointed at the man with a hand covered in the
sticky blue syrup of a melted sno-cone. I remember it was hot. It's always hot.
"He's talking to himself," I said. Mother
pulled me closer.
"Turn around. Watch the fireworks." She looked
at the man sitting on the sidewalk. Torn clothes hung loose on his small frame,
his hair was matted. He leaned against a large duffel type bag, his legs splayed
in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. She handed me a plastic flag
on a cheap wooden stick.
A burst of red and green exploded in the air then
dripped down the black canvas of sky before fading into gray trails. It was
followed by another boom, then another, then another. Mother sang along to America the Beautiful. I waved my flag
and turned again to look at the man behind me. He had drawn his legs to his
chest, clutching his knees, and rocked back and forth.
"He's still talking to himself," I
whispered to Mother.
"What? The fireworks are this way." She
put one hand on top of my head, rotating it in the direction of the display.
"I don't know why they don't clear those people out before," she
whispered to a woman beside her that she did not know. Both women shook their
heads and turned back to the celebration.
Several stolen glances between bursts, the man's
body jerked with each discharge. By the end of the display, he had his hands clasped
over his ears, his eyes tightly shut. I moved my mouth in sync with him, trying
to discover what he was saying. 'ah. ah.' Hot?
It's
always hot. A thin, cotton bandana protects my face from the
sand. My arms are crossed over my head. Mother's hand. Look the other way. I hear gunfire, followed by a boom, then
another, then another. The ground shakes beneath me.
I move my lips and
recognize the familiarity of the motion.
Stop.
He had said. Make it stop.
