hurricane season had just begun — Meenal Alagumuthu

we're forever crystallized in the moment when
the streetlights weren't bright enough and september
was too far away for thought. hurricane season had just begun.
i was still the girl who moved in down the street—
the one who wore heels to run alongside the river and braided your hair.
florence would come, and she’d tear us to pieces,
but for a moment, the streetlights were fireflies before
the fireflies appeared in july, and we tried to convince ourselves
september would never come.
i'd light firecrackers and held them next to your hair, trying to replicate the color.
i'd find out later, it was oceanfront sand,
the kind the tourists bottle up and bring home to prove they came here.
it rained record-high that summer. your hair was streaked with gold, then.
we sat in the middle of the street and let it flood.
you always carried leaves in your pocket, however small, you got so angry
when they fell before their time. once, you told me you were worried your
mom would fall too, but across an ocean, not in your backyard.
that night, i wiped your tears away with the lace of my sundress.

i wonder if you bottled up a bit of sand and a bit of my love
and carried it across the country. we're not tourists here,
but i thought you might have wanted to prove i loved you, however briefly.

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Meenal has been a writer since she could pick up a pen, but nowadays she spends her time doing a variety of things. She does stage management for school plays and musicals, and is the opinion editor for her school newspaper. At home, she spends far too much time crocheting and knitting. She's also a proud Honor Thespian with the International Thespian Society, and hopes to reach National Thespian status. She has previously been published in Apprentice Writer by Susquehanna University. In the future, she'd like to teach chemistry.