right out of my mouth but it’s so good I keep eating to get the taste back again. When I’m finished I stop to lookthrough my camera at Charlie. He seems like he rocked on watching the meal about as much as I did eating it.
“Do you think that would make a good picture?” Charlie asks, pointing.
“Maybe you should start taking pictures.” I’m sick of him telling me what to take all the time. “I want to go home now.” But I look. Of course I look.
Across the courtyard are two tall beautiful lankas and a little girl. The little girl has red pigtails and freckles, wide-apart amber-colored eyes and gaps between her teeth. She looks just like one of the lanks. She keeps getting up from her chair and running around the tree squealing at the fireflies. The lankas take turns chasing after her, catching her, hugging her and sitting her down again, trying to get her to eat her rice. There is something about the three of them eating their dinner under the firefly tree that burns inside of me more than the food burning my mouth. They keep touching each other and laughing, sharing their tandoori chicken.
The red-haired lanka notices I’m staring at them and she smiles at me. She has the same gap-tooth grinas the little girl. Her friend gets up to catch the little girl who is off in another firefly frenzy.
I’m feeling sort of high from the hot food. “Can I take your picture?” Usually I don’t ask—just do it—but it seems like with them I should.
“It’s okay with me.” Her voice is deep and rich like the ambery color of her eyes. “Honey,” she says to the other one, “she wants to take our picture. Grab Miss Pigtails.”
The friend has black hair and a diamond in her nose. She comes back with Miss Pigtails squirming in her arms. That squirmy-wormyness reminds me of me when I was little but I never giggled like that.
The lankas put their arms around each other and the little girl wriggles in between them still giggling. Through my camera lens I see their love even more. It’s almost like a color. It’s like a firefly halo. I also see that one of the lanks is beautiful in the strong way that only real androgynous ones are. She has really broad shoulders and long muscles and glamster legs. She laughs with a deep voice and if you look close you can see an Adam’s apple.
I think one was probably once a man. That littlegirl’s mom was probably once her dad. But it doesn’t matter because she is about the happiest kid I’ve ever seen.
“I’ll send you one if you want,” I say. I don’t want to take any more pictures of them. I feel like maybe I saw a little too much.
But they’re just smiling like they don’t mind what anybody sees or thinks. They give me their address on a book of matches and I get up to leave.
The little girl is off again firefly chasing.
She points up into the trees. “I want one.”
I would like to catch some too, put them in a jar. Put the jar in the tree house so Angel Juan would be able to read at night when he and I live there in the spring.
The red-haired lanka kneels next to the little girl. She plays with her pigtails and says, “They’d die in a jar. But you can have them all the time in the tree.” The little girl looks into her eyes and nods.
I look through my camera at the firefly tree. For just a second I think I see a ghost-a-rama—a whole bunch of them, like they jumped out of some black-and-white movie except for their sparkly golden eyes—sitting in the branches.
I am huddling in a corner holding my letter thinking about being right where Angel Juan was living and not finding him.
Charlie is doing spin-dive-dips in the air and humming that song “Green Onions,” trying to make me laugh but I don’t want to laugh. I wish he’d just shut up and go back into his trunk. I want to think about Angel Juan. How we went surfing ’til the sun set on a beach where the sand was all polished black rocks. I cut my feet on the rocks and he put
“Do you think that would make a good picture?” Charlie asks, pointing.
“Maybe you should start taking pictures.” I’m sick of him telling me what to take all the time. “I want to go home now.” But I look. Of course I look.
Across the courtyard are two tall beautiful lankas and a little girl. The little girl has red pigtails and freckles, wide-apart amber-colored eyes and gaps between her teeth. She looks just like one of the lanks. She keeps getting up from her chair and running around the tree squealing at the fireflies. The lankas take turns chasing after her, catching her, hugging her and sitting her down again, trying to get her to eat her rice. There is something about the three of them eating their dinner under the firefly tree that burns inside of me more than the food burning my mouth. They keep touching each other and laughing, sharing their tandoori chicken.
The red-haired lanka notices I’m staring at them and she smiles at me. She has the same gap-tooth grinas the little girl. Her friend gets up to catch the little girl who is off in another firefly frenzy.
I’m feeling sort of high from the hot food. “Can I take your picture?” Usually I don’t ask—just do it—but it seems like with them I should.
“It’s okay with me.” Her voice is deep and rich like the ambery color of her eyes. “Honey,” she says to the other one, “she wants to take our picture. Grab Miss Pigtails.”
The friend has black hair and a diamond in her nose. She comes back with Miss Pigtails squirming in her arms. That squirmy-wormyness reminds me of me when I was little but I never giggled like that.
The lankas put their arms around each other and the little girl wriggles in between them still giggling. Through my camera lens I see their love even more. It’s almost like a color. It’s like a firefly halo. I also see that one of the lanks is beautiful in the strong way that only real androgynous ones are. She has really broad shoulders and long muscles and glamster legs. She laughs with a deep voice and if you look close you can see an Adam’s apple.
I think one was probably once a man. That littlegirl’s mom was probably once her dad. But it doesn’t matter because she is about the happiest kid I’ve ever seen.
“I’ll send you one if you want,” I say. I don’t want to take any more pictures of them. I feel like maybe I saw a little too much.
But they’re just smiling like they don’t mind what anybody sees or thinks. They give me their address on a book of matches and I get up to leave.
The little girl is off again firefly chasing.
She points up into the trees. “I want one.”
I would like to catch some too, put them in a jar. Put the jar in the tree house so Angel Juan would be able to read at night when he and I live there in the spring.
The red-haired lanka kneels next to the little girl. She plays with her pigtails and says, “They’d die in a jar. But you can have them all the time in the tree.” The little girl looks into her eyes and nods.
I look through my camera at the firefly tree. For just a second I think I see a ghost-a-rama—a whole bunch of them, like they jumped out of some black-and-white movie except for their sparkly golden eyes—sitting in the branches.
I am huddling in a corner holding my letter thinking about being right where Angel Juan was living and not finding him.
Charlie is doing spin-dive-dips in the air and humming that song “Green Onions,” trying to make me laugh but I don’t want to laugh. I wish he’d just shut up and go back into his trunk. I want to think about Angel Juan. How we went surfing ’til the sun set on a beach where the sand was all polished black rocks. I cut my feet on the rocks and he put
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