My feet were dragging past the blaze of red azaleas on the manicured lawns. I rested by the privet hedge in front of one of the ranch houses. The ball shape of the privet hedge, the blue textured bricks, began to look familiar. I peeked into the bay window; I saw my mother six months pregnant with me. She was angling the face of my miniature bric-a-brac polar bear just so to the grand fleet of sailboat simulacrums afloat on the curtains. My father walked in—younger than I am! He fell to his knees before me gathering flesh, afloat in the infinite dream of her belly fluid, to begin telling me just how life really is. Naturally, from where I stood I couldn’t hear, but his lips were readable: “Flesh and water is all, flesh and water is all!”
My hand shot up to cover my mouth. But ambling over to a gathering of daffodils, I let the sun enlighten the fading enamel of my smile. Ha, ha! I asked no one in particular if my two gold caps were like marigolds among the daisies. Then walking across the lawn, I pressed myself against the 80-year-old Live Oak to feel as if I were among the trunk’s venerable striations; I said to myself, “My roots are also here” in the shade of these branches so desperately reaching for the bay window.