June Kelly

Adelaide turned as a dove darted from a branch and shattered into white feathers at the base of an old oak tree. The grass held the feathers up and away from the ground like it knew they weren’t ready to be given to the earth, to the dirt and beetles. She then turned and watched as Leo followed the edge of the field where the grass met a gravel path, his bull terrier close behind him, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his father’s New England coat. Adelaide knew how his father’s death affected him; how Leo hadn’t been able to look up from his shoes when his mother read the eulogy.

Trusses of yarrow hugged the gravel path in a veil of thin plates, the sun low and dry as it hopelessly clung to the ground. She kept her eyes on him as he and the dog walked back towards her. Adelaide plucked a twig from the grass and fiddled with it, feeling the small, rough knots where it had been separated from the giant oak. The soft crunch of Leo’s boots grew louder until he was right beside her. He dropped down to his side and leaned into a cocked elbow. Adelaide looked at him. She studied his light brown hair, his freckles, and his eyes. It was all golden in the setting sun. She wondered who could ever deserve such an evening as this one.

She asked him. He told her that she deserves every beautiful evening this southern sky has to offer. Something in her chest twinged and she looked away from the boy bathed in gold. Her hands snapped the twig in half and the young dog fell on his back to look at them. The fur inside of his ears reminded her of pink spanish moss.

Adelaide inhaled and let her eyes fall shut as the wind ruffled her hair. She thought back to when she and Leo lived together for a summer in Vermont. The sun up there was pale yellow, even when it set in the summer, which had always disappointed her. Leo never seemed to mind the pale sky. The cool air let him breathe. Those nights, they weren’t cloaked in southern rays; the thick and full kind that smell sweet like marsh and muck. Warm and tangible. 

Like fresh honey, Adelaide thought.

The breeze brushed against the slant of her face and hair, bringing her back from that memory. She opened her eyes again to find Leo twirling a white feather between his thumb and forefinger. The sun had dipped below the line of trees in the distance, the meadow now blanketed in a deep orange light. Adelaide told Leo that she loved him, and it wasn’t the first time, but he took his other hand out of the pocket of the old coat and brought it to her cheek. He traced the tips of his fingers down the length of her neck, tucking her long, dark hair behind one shoulder with the back of his hand. She brought her fingertips to where he touched her, her eyebrows knit together. The night of the funeral, Adelaide had held Leo so close that his tears pooled in the dip above her collarbone and then trickled down her chest. She regarded that moment extraordinary; the epitome of intimacy, however unusual, during a moment so raw with grief. He touched her now, his long fingers perfusing her breast with a certain hollowness, and she knew she must let him go.

Adelaide smiled sadly and grabbed Leo’s open coat, wrapping it tightly around him, and took the feather from his fingers. She told him that they would go back to Vermont one day and fix up his father’s country home, and they could live there with Gus and watch the pale sun melt beneath the horizon every night. But she knew that he would never let her leave Mississippi, not when the sun here had the power to turn green to magenta and brown to gold. And so she would bring him out to this field for as long as he could bear the southern sun, for as long as he could hold his breath, and wait for him to realize he doesn’t belong here.