i would like to have an orange crush soda. the kind that come in glass bottles. thick old glass formed to resemble a woman's curves. curves i wish i had grown. glass bottles that come out of old refrigerators kept humming along on the splintered and sagging back porch. the refrigerator smells musty when you open the door, frost growing stalagmites. it's an odd smell; it smells like old wooden floors and kids running around without shoes, never-been-washed dogs chasing their heels. opening the refrigerator i find myself walking through the door and into a large unmowed pine-backed field. cows in the distance held back by a remnant of fence. shit and grass perfume the air like some sweaty rodeo whore. the sun has decided to drop behind the tops of the pines. it's july, and the ground and air still feel warm and wet. fireflies tease the darkness in the distance as they climb sprial staircases in the trees. everything alive singing and buzzing. three steps down from the large back porch. the planks squeak and rock when bare feet dare to apply any amount of weight. clothes hung out to dry in the yard, obstructing the view of the barn only just partially. over the stack of old newspapers and crate of empty bottles on the left of the door an old rusted bottle-opener is nailed christ-like to the wall. i think there was once an "RC" logo painted in the center. i can still imagine a faint crown proclaiming the steel's royal ancestry. the locusts begin to sing.

i had forgotten.