Hoses
28 hoses I love the hoses of summer hanging in their green coils from the sides of houses, or slithering through lawns on their way to the cool meditations of sprinklers. I think of my father, armed with his scotch and garden hose probing the dusk with water, the world in flames around him, booze running the show. Still, he liked to walk out after dinner and water the yard, fiddling with the nozzle, misting this, showering that. Sometimes, in the hot twilight, my sisters and I would run in our swimsuits through the grass while he followed us with a cold beam of water. And once, when my mother came out to watch, he turned the hose on her, the two of them laughing in a way we’d never heard, a laughter that must have brought them back to the beginning. ...
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