When I arrived at my street, the majority of homes were still lit. The sun had only set at most an hour or two ago I suppose. Down the street, the man and his family were lighting sparklers. The small sparks leapt through the dark, exploding and cascading into color as they fell to the ground. I listened to the kids cackle as they dropped them to the floor, stomping down with their shows as the crackling was cut short with a small pop. Their mother chided them with a gentle smile.
As I walk by I hear their mother say what's that boy doing out so late?
I raise my arm and wave in response, saying hello quietly enough that they would see my lips move yet not hear. The father waves in response.
"You're out quite late!" he noted. "I know summer's a busy time for kids your age, but make sure you don't worry your parents too much. Do you live around here?"
I tell him I live two houses down in house 6709, gesturing with my hands to the broken garage door stuck in a half open position, lawn overgrown with grass so long it spilled over in disheveled waves, and flickering lampposts. I hope he couldn't see the half torn trash-bag dumping waste onto the lawn.
"Oh... I see. Have a good night then." he replies after a pause grinning with solely his mouth. His eyes didn't budge. His wife stares at me surprised.
As I walked away I hear her say I thought their child died several years ago? I hear him respond saying yeah—I've not seen him around ever.
I walk up to my house, grab an empty from the mess of trash on the lawn, run back over, and throw it as hard as I can at them. I miss, and it shatters against their driveway, but they turn towards me, the whites of their stunned eyes visible in the dry dusk. The children stop laughing and the only audible sound is the cicadas in the trees and the popping of fireworks on a stick. The shards of glass glisten beneath the lamp and moonlight, and—it looks sort of beautiful. I wish I could stay for a moment longer, but before they can react, I run up the street to my house. They won't remember anyway.
I hear them start to shout and run after, but I quietly duck under the garage door and they resume their play as soon as I'm out of sight.
After reaching the interior of the garage, I crouch down and hug my knees, looking out to the dimly lit street through the small gap. The dry evening air washes over my slightly damp shirt, and I feel my ankles strain as I push my knees further into a squat. My breaths are audible in the silent garage, pulling my chest in and out, in and out as I feel it press into the tops of my thighs. I feel my still racing heart rate slow slightly as my breaths grow lighter. Isn't it sad that I'm the only one who remembers even that moment of excitement? That I'm the only one who suffers from what happened? If you were here, you would say something cheesy like not if I'm here, but you're not here so you don't.
I step up and walk to the trashcan in the middle of the left area where a car would be parked. The garage is mostly empty, with clutter and rarely used items scattered about the cold asphalt floor. The car is parked outside in the driveway beneath the shade of a large tree, branches spilling out so far as to hang low and tickle the sunroof. I pull a house key from inside the red Nike shoebox from the haphazard pile by the trashcan. The thin metal felt cool to the skin. I stood still before the locked door, letting the sensation seep into my palm and the warmth of the cluttered garage press down on me before inserting the key and opening the door, drawing in a withered breath as I do so.
The door clicked open to a half-lit hallway from the kitchen light. A couple pairs of shoes are arranged next to a carpet beneath a coat rack. I wipe my shoes on the rug.
"Hello? Who's there?" call out Dad nervously.
I tell him it's his son, to which he responds "my son died years ago—who are you?!"
As I hear him rush over from the kitchen, I grab a photo from the table beside the entrance, specially left here by both of us, lifting it up and howling it's me as I show him the photo.
"Ah—AH/. I'm... I'm, I'm sorry." he tells me.
"You... You know how it is." I watch him lower the steak knife and stare at his feet before laughing vindictively. "I do this every time, don't I? Come in. Let's eat dinner."
I don't respond and instead walk over to the table with him, careful to stay within his field of vision. I see the table of half eaten food, his bowl of rice and chicken already nearly empty. We eat in silence as he pokes at his last grains of rice instead of actually picking them up so that we finish eating at the same time. The chicken is flavorless and overcooked, the rice soggy, and there's too much chili crunch, but it tastes good. He's right. He does this every time.
I stare out the window as we eat, watching the ever-unchanging stars and moon glimmer in the distance.
After dinner, I go upstairs with Dad and give him his journal. He sits in the reading chair in the corner of the bedroom as I ready for bed.
"Hey, I'm sorry."
I don't say anything. It's not like he's really at fault, even if it hurts a little.
As I lay awake in my bed, I hear him climb into his across the room.
"Goodnight."
He always turns the a/c to 19 degrees before we sleep. The cool air washes over me and I grip the edge of the blankets tightly, pulling it over my face as I sink into the soft fabric. I can hear Dad's soft breathing, the hum of the air conditioner, and the muffled sound of soba.
I fall into a deep sleep and dream of summer 9 years ago.