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written by kayleigh birch
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illustration by yilin zhu
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The sun, when its time came to set, made a grand spectacle of trickling every ounce of golden light over Playa del Ray. It seemed to roll down the bluffs of Vista del Mar—where the ocean spray became tiny houses, made with love—radiant rays pouring and fizzling and crackling into a barely-there purple dusk.
Ma placed the glasses on the counter far more gently than Jaime ever could, as his hands were twice the size of hers. She poured the honey whiskey with careful intention, watching the melted rosin kiss the one-ounce line before making her first trip. Jaime checked the windowsill, then the clock, then the front porch one last time before leaving the door wide open, inviting in the warm summer air. He picked up a few extra chairs and placed them around the windowsill before returning to the coffee pot.
“It’s a helluva lot nicer than that last place, no?”
Jaime was right. The porch, although rich with crunchy brown plants and chipped dollar-store paint, felt more home than anywhere else at the momentThe windowsills were caked with the powdery leaves of dried lavender. His eyes continued to glance into the kitchen, meeting the clock, before peering out of the window and down the road.
“They’ll be coming any minute now,” he said, containing his excitement.
Ma nodded silently, snapping open a fan decorated with little gold pieces and ruby-red flowers, waving it gracefully every so often with dainty, sun-spotted fingers. She was draped in a confusing cardigan for July. Jaime guided her to the chair closest to the window, balancing a thick cup of Folger’s, which nearly spilled as Andrew poked his head in the door.
“I didn’t miss it, did I?” he asked with wide eyes.
“Hello to you, too.” Jaime laughed heartily as he led him in, patting Andrew’s back slightly too hard. “But no, it’s lookin’ like it’s got a little performance anxiety this year.”
“I’m sure if we just stick it out,” Andrew began as his eyes trailed to the honey whiskey, then to a nodding Jaime, “it’ll outdo itself.”
“Here’s to hoping.” Jaime replied, clinking glasses with Andrew and tasting the warm amber.
“You boys are so dramatic,” Ma . “It happens every year. What makes you think that this time will be any different?”
“Aren’t you excited, Ma?”
“Of course, don’t be silly.” Her fanning slowed down to an occasional pitter-patter that clinked the sliding gold rings on her fingers. She was silent for a moment, staring at the windowsill. The stairs needed to be redone: the terracotta shell seemed to be cracking.
There were no fireflies, but there were crickets somewhere far off in the distance as more neighbours locked their front doors, starting across and down and up the street.
“You better bring more chairs,” she advised. “It looks like the party’s getting started.”
Some neighbours brought fruit plates and coffee creamer and tiny brownies meant for no more than two bites. Some even brought their own chairs to pull up in a sunrise shape.
Sunshine through them, fiery gems for you…
The conversation was sparse and lingered in the rolling ocean fog, a sense of gentle excitement filling the room. In the afterglow of half-drunken smiles of anticipation, “Freewheelin’” and “Déjà Vu” hummed in the background, the clock in the kitchen ticking on as a fifth pot of coffee was filled to the brim.
Only for you…
When James Taylor came on, Miguel danced with Mary. Even Ma twirled gracefully around the room, still fanning the heat gently away. Just for a little while, in the limbo of something spectacular, everything was easy and clean and right, as the clock in the kitchen struck a few minutes after midnight.
A collective hush held the room, as everyone at once knew it was finally time.
Chairs tightened toward the windowsill, as the living room was now filled; the adults put down their nursed cups as kids jumped up and down with excitement, their bedtimes far passed. Jaime, though a grown man, reached for his mother’s hand.
You best walk her way and watch it shine…
In a tiny potted plant, the green shell of the night-blooming cereus shyly began to blossom, peeking yellow leaves before the main attraction: a blooming sphere, no bigger than a baseball, soft and white and the embodiment of short-lived love. The crowd was entranced, and no one dared to break the silence until Jaime stood up.
“I’d say,” he began, holding up a cup of coffee, “that this is the best bloom we’ve ever had!”
Everyone cheered and watched the remaining flickers of the flower, where, even just for one night, love was small and close and real.
And watch her watch the morning come…
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