(For Diana “WHOA” Gallagher)
At 2am, our feet don’t touch the ground.
John pokes me in the back with a roll of trash bags and curses me something bawdy in Greek. He likely hasn’t slept in days, but his face teems with its usual sass. He looks around for someone/something to sue, but comes up empty like the grassy patch in front of us. Bryan rolls his eyes and hoists his man bag. Yes, we are children, I tell him. I’m 12. We walk past residence halls accustomed to frivolity, weed, and the occasional smattering of school work. Yet, they seem silly now engulfed in looming darkness, unsure of how to behave in the absence of sound.
I poke John again and take off in a run. My speed picks up, though it is unnecessary – his 10 years of cigarettes assure me of victory. The silence gives me wings.
Our laughter echoes in the moonlight and Southampton has never looked so beautiful.