We climbed the hill in pairs. This was
the summer we met the Lorenzi, both brought
cans of cold beer; the Severin were newly
married and packed sandwiches in plastic
bags; Diana was in love with Michele and
invited his friends to come in bicycles.
It was a moonless evening, stars glittered
from velvet-black sky. We exchange jokes about
the Greek, someone started a lecture on
correct observation of meteors. Smoke from
our cigarettes lifted a microcosm of the Milky Way.
We arrived and looked up from sunburnt grass.
By ten o'clock our napes were aching.
We left for a round of drinks at the nearest bar,
then lost sight of each other one by one:
the Lorenzi moved to another town, the Severin
stopped writing after their son died, Michele
started courting Diana's cousin twice removed.
Years later, a tv documentary focused on
the St Lawrence Tears phenomenon. We were
busy discussing divorce. It was half-past one
in the morning: the best time to admire
spectacular fireball shows. Inevitably, we raised
our voices; we had no time for infantile wishes.
Copyright © 2005, Arlene Ang