Swallow Light

Abstract

In September trapped sun, for the first time, Carrie and I sat on her back porch, and talked about growing old and holding fast to life. My mother said, Learn to be happy. I almost asked, What is the curriculum of joy?, but I didn’t want to sound like Mr. Rogers. Recalling childhood is like swallows flying light in a blackberry bramble. For our mother’s birthday, my brother and I once bought a beer mug from Woolworth’s, a wild woman’s image, wide grin, flared nostrils, like the monstrous other that scares Abbott and Costello in Africa Screams, and my brother and I carried our amazing find to Carrie who aped our glow, even though we then knew she’d never win an Oscar. She still has the mug.