TWENTY
June 2006
Summer in Houston tastes like dirt, thick bellowing mounds of dust piling on and on until you can’t breathe anymore. Sometimes a squalling wind arrives, pressing its puckered lips to the window panes. Whooooo, it shrieks, whooooosh, and then it cavorts over the pile of dust, depositing it evenly in our miracle-less world. The rain that follows washes it all away, leaving behind an acerbic mustiness that lingers until September brings in the moldiness that I associate with loss, the dull snicker of an autumn past.
At 6:59 a.m. my alarm went off and I turned over to hide my face in the pillow. I had a curious habit of setting my alarm a minute before my actual waking time. It gave me a moment to enjoy the comfort of my bed before the day’s activities consumed me.
I had s
