Dragonfly Summers
Prologue

There is a place in the back of my mind where time stands still. A place where I am perpetually ten years old. Running full throttle down a dusty dirt road, wearing out the soles on my Converse sneakers while the wind whips at the tattered threads on the ends of my cut-off jeans. My kid brother Jeremy trails slowly but surely in the distance. We make for our great-grandmother’s house and reaching the back porch I tug at the silver handle on the screen. It gives way with a creek and I reach and twist the glass knob on the ancient wood door with it’s thick paned, wavy glass. I poke my head inside and my nostrils are instantly incensed. The scent of fresh baked biscuits and sweet sun tea linger. I crook my neck around the corner leading into the expansive dining room and holler.
"Grandmamma? Grandmamma?"
"Yes dear." A sweet voice beckons. "Come on in."
    We pause at the cupboard below the porcelain sink and I withdraw a square, tin cookie box. The lid gives way with a snap and I paw at four freshly baked tea cakes, handing two to Jeremy. I open the refrigerator in the dining room and remove two six ounce bottle Cokes. Walking back to the kitchen I pop the tops with the aid of the bottle opener mounted on the wall next to the door, the caps rattle in the bottom of a coffee can seated on the linoleum floor directly below. Grandmamma has ascended to the hallway and she meets us at the side door that leads to the "L" shaped porch. We follow her outside and I join her on the yellow porch swing with the green carpet padding, while Jeremy takes a seat in a nearby pastel painted steel lawn chair.
    I gaze out onto the yard through the Mimosa blossoms swaying in the sticky July breeze, past the Dragonflies swarming in the hot summer sun, and out to the highway past the drive. My eyes light on a lonely car, meandering along like a box turtle. Jeremy lets out a giggle as the carbonated bubbles waft from the mouth of his drink and tickle his nose. He swipes at the crumbs ringing his upturned lips. The rusty steel chains of the porch swing sway and clang lightly against one another. Grandmamma begins to speak, her voice is warm and soothing. She starts to tell a story, one we’ve both heard at least a hundred times, yet never tire of. When this world brings me to the point of exasperation, when I’m sure I can’t take one more step, I close my eyes and fall back into the time machine that is my memory, and for just a little while, I’m home.