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SUMMER MEMORY / Jeffrey Harrison Sometimes, at night, we'd unhook the dock, and all of us—cousins, uncles, aunts— on a light breeze or very mild currents, would drift out to the middle of the lake. One of the older cousins played the guitar, and some of us sang. The grown-ups had drinks, and shards of ice from the ice-house clinked as stars appeared. We looked for shooting stars. The shore's thick trees darkened, and we children secretly paddled toward the end of the lake as if we wanted to slip into the black fold between the mountain and its reflection— past boathouses whose red and green lights swam on the slick surface, and way past our bedtime. 252 · The Missouri Review NIGHT VISITORS / Jeffrey Harrison Moths were the most common, battering themselves to shreds against the reading lamp until I had to turn it off. When I was lucky it was a lightning bug, blinking me good night. But sometimes it was a wasp: I'd stiffen, listen to it bouncing off the ceiling, skidding behind the map of the world, flying closer, getting caught like a burr in the blanket— then I'd turn on the light. That was the worst. And of course the most annoying was the mosquito. But my favorite was the sleek, green elegant cousin of the grasshopper: the katydid. I'd find her in the folds of the printed curtains. Sometimes she'd say her name for me, rubbing her wings together. Sometimes she'd let me do it, and I'd let her go. By morning she was gone completely. The Missouri Review · 253 ...


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