So hot everything goes liquid. The air over the cornfield shimmers, air so hot and wet you feel you’re taking in another’s hot, exhausted breath. Your skin’s so slick with sweat, it’s hard to tell where your body ends and the air begins. Smells that were forgotten come to the surface. The garlic in last night’s soup rises up to the skin, irritating a mind that’s already angered by heat. These are the days best spent submerged, in a cool blue room with the curtains closed, or in a cold bath with water drawn up to your chin, or better yet in a pool in a creek hidden by trees. But instead my mother and I were driving the democrat down Blood Road, taking the cream to the train station in town. Blood Road was as dusty in summer as it was muddy and vexing in spring. Although the ruts were still there — created in spring when the horses and buggies ripped one way, then the other, through mud to avoid the turtles — at least a buggy didn’t get stuck in summer, its wheels mired in a mess of turtle blood and horse shit.
What do You think about The Cure For Death By Lightning?
