That Year, That Month, Those People and Things

The cicadas’ cries tore through the summer heat. Red bricks roughened her palms and left them calloused, while laughter from the earthen courtyard mingled with the smell of mortar and drifted toward the horizon. Those days were like unglazed pottery bowls, plain and humble, yet filled to the brim with the warmth of everyday life. Only years later, looking back, did she realize that the figures bent over laying bricks, the children chasing one another, and the people standing in doorways had long since become embedded in the cracks between the bricks of time, part of memories that could never be pulled apart.