I can tell just by looking at the sky that it is a perfect early summer evening.
My mind drifts from the droning conversation in the room – group sharing or something equally ineffective – and leaps instead to the tree branches the wind jostles playfully just outside the second-floor window. I can guess the air feels warm at first, but after a short while the slight chill of evening will tickle the underside of the still-small leaves of June and make anyone walking outside wish they had remembered to bring along a light windbreaker or sweater. I recall such nights during my childhood in Perfectsmalltown, USA, where fireflies danced like angels at play in the air above front yards and we kids danced along the sidewalks devilishly tugging at our parents’ sleeves, punctuating the dusky stillness with the sound of our pleading for just a few more minutes to walk and play outside tonight before we have to sleep.
But I won’t be walking outside tonight or any other, so I won’t know for certain how warm or cool the breeze, and I won’t be able to walk alongside this building to discern what strangeness caused a young green tree to grow just outside the window of this stale ash-gray room on the second floor of Purgatory.
Nothing young and green grows within the confines of chain link fence and barbed wire that enclose my sky view.
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