This prose poem was inspired by NPR's Morning Edition.
My childhood block
was a grid of gravel roads running through a newborn subdivision just outside
of town. Red-tailed hawks and wide-eyed deer watched us bike down those dusty
roads on long, hot summer afternoons. Crashes were painful. Decades later, I
still smell the rusty tang of blood-soaked dust, feel the bite of antiseptic on
raw palms, and taste the tart, sweet comfort of cold lemonade.