In the late summer of that year* the honeysuckle was strong, filling the light-wind air with its blessing and bliss. The bourbon was cheap but sweet matching the taste of the honey summer air. I inhaled a barrel of that honey air and smiled at the fireflies playing hide-and-seek with each other and the neighborhood children. The children carried small mason jars with breathing holes punched in the top with an ice-pick, still useful for some things besides murder it seems. They laughed as they chased the flying lamps. A true smile is as slippery and fleeting as any truth, there and gone – like lightening. And in that flash truth burns and entices like a mythological Siren. I tried to smile as true and long as I could, to smile with my eyes, to smile with my cheeks, to smile with my lips, to smile with my soul. Even with a late summer scene like a multi-dimensional painting, honeysuckle and cicadas, fireflies and giggling children, green grass damp with a late afternoon sprinkle, dogs without leashes, streets with people not cars, BBQ and grills competing with the honeysuckle and jasmine, a lantern-yellow low rising super moon – even then a smile can only be as true as a recurring dream. She must have seen the sentimental look in my wet eyes as she looked at me with a sardonic smile of her own and said, I think you’ve had enough bourbon. It was as if she had snatched all of the jars of fireflies from the hands of the children and smashed them in the street, stomping on the cicadas, stomping on the children’s joy, throwing water on the grills. Truth left me like a tired prostitute having been paid in one dollar bills and quarters. I stared her in the eyes for for a few seconds of scorn and anger before saying, You’re probably right. I finished my drink, turned away from her, walked over to the table and poured another, giving a toast toward her before taking the next pull from the red cup. It was indeed cheap but sweet. And true.

* – For those who may notice, yes this is the beginning of Hemingway’s Farewell to Arms. One of my writing journals is a Hemingway journal, whose cover is the original first draft of the first chapter to that book. When I find myself wanting to write but not really having anything popping into my head, I will start with those words – something usually follows. Nothing brilliant mind you, but something…