s’mores.
at first everyone was involved— kim, lauren, dev, veda, kate, eric, julia, and i. we’d linger in my backyard long into the night, chasing our words, hunting sardines and ghosts in the bushes. we roasted hot dogs, competed for the bragging rights entitled to the maker of the best brown marshmallow. sometimes we told ghost stories.
then our numbers dwindled. the brief period of early childhood, during which age didn’t matter, a bubble that allowed our ages to range from fourteen to seven, ended. we lost julia, eric.
s’more parties became less like parties and more like gatherings. my mother stopped stringing up christmas lights around the table umbrella. we stopped lighting the chinese lanterns. it began to feel as though we were struggling to hold on to something—childhood, innocence, platonic affection. our group dynamic was beginning to change, and i could see it, and do nothing to stop it.
