mama said there'd be days like this.

It was a strange time, a time where the air hung heavy with moisture, the warm sticky moisture of a southern August draped in molasses and weeping willows, excepting for the rarest of moments (infrequent enough so just as you reached the point where you were in the process of letting their memory slip away, another would return) when a blustering wind would cut through under the pretensions of being a desperately needed relief — Mo calmly strolling out of the bullpen during the playoff game that has gone into extra innings — and the soil would breathe and the people would smile at the sensation of air moving across their damp brow and the weeping willows would sway, but only for a moment, after which the breeze would continue on westward and the trees and people would remain, rendered immobile by the heat converging in the wake of the wind and angry and sweaty as the molecules of air crept up under their shirt collars, moisture seeping between the fibers of cotton and settling on their clammy skin, no longer cool; the children would whine, stretching syllables like taffy (“But Mommy I’m hotttttttt”) and adults would grumble under their breath, lacking the energy to project words into the thick air before them and the trees stood staunch in their silence, drooping branches hanging especially droopily, everyone burdened with the knowledge that what had, moments before, simply been the way things were was actually not the only way — but still they remained, swathed in heat, motionless.

iamdonald:

Ibra Ake

CAMP NOV 15 AW HERE IT GOES