The television has been turned off, the lights in the living room have dimmed. The rain has stopped falling, and there is no sound. I lay down on the soft bedroom carpet, feeling the fibers against my skin. I close my eyes and fall in and out of sleep right there on the floor.
My dreams are progressions of years. Dark skin and boats. Harry Belafonte and humming. Bicycle trips to McDonalds, dogs, and diving lessons. Races down sidewalks and hillsides. Soccer and chorus practice. Air conditioners and cigarettes. Talking and not talking. At the end of one brief period of lucidity I find myself staring at the ceiling and consider just whether or not I should let my parents know that I’ve learned this story.
I look at the clock, and see that morning has arrived. The events of the previous night still seem surreal. I close my eyes for a moment, and try to imagine an answer to my question, “What exactly would I say to Dad about -”
And then it suddenly comes to me. A drum beat begins. It both slaps me in the face and yells, “DAAAY-O! Day-ay-ay-o.”
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