I think you remember.
The Saturday evenings when you would drive your parents’ old sedan across town. The Weekend: the province of golden, open houses breathing in and out suburban armies of lost trippers, overachieving Adderall addicts, and drug-dealing lushes lighting up on the corner. Out past the sterile hospital glow of liquor store windows and halogen streetlights burning the high school football field. Where sad kids would convene for a single night to drink and destroy in the absence of any authority but their own – hawkeyed police cruisers waiting for them to emerge from the woods and basements in a feverish dance, starving and filled with hope, alcohol, and medication.
After dark, the bedroom doors lock, concealing the young and hungry, the sweaty and ecstatic. Outside, older brothers pile their trunks with cheap beer and race past distant bonfires that light up the woods: crushed cans, split trees, clouds of acrid-sweet smoke. Young, idle, bored, and beloved; hell-bent on kissing until their gums bleed; a generation with blown-out ears and perfectly straight teeth. One day you will miss this, and it will all be gone. For now, there is the fading sun, the smell of the cut grass, and the promise of the night.
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