I remember you like a movie:

my last teenage summer in The Deep South ™

At a wooden picnic bench under the porch

you were smoking a cigarette

amber embers glowing and then flickering out.

My eyes wandered across the field to the woods where

yellow fireflies blinked between the darkening recesses of trees,

crickets and katydids chirped,

a deer rustled dry leaves and bushes.

Blue twilight fell softly on your face.

“This feels like a movie,” I said.

“Yeah?” you laughed.

You never understood

your role.