The summer I lived with my sister,
Amanda, she worked nights at her school’s
computer lab. During the hours
I waited for her, I watched Star Trek

reruns, wondering at the landscapes
of distant planets made from fabric
and paint and the odd stretchy
uniforms I was sad we’d all wear

in the future. Outside, there were lightning
bugs, the thrum of 18-wheelers
on the bypass, and stars as thick
as swarms. Sometimes, when I was brave,

I’d stand with the dog, testing the atmosphere
of the driveway and maybe take
enough steps to reach the road
before turning back. I’d imagine

walking past the pine woods, our neighbor’s
beached RV, and the stone fraternity
houses, where summer students sat
on porches with bourbon and beer.

The computer lab was a half-mile
from our house and the distance
seemed to stretch, like each breath
pushed it away from us.

I concentrated on the dog’s collar
clanking against his tags, the heat
radiating off the asphalt
into the soles of our feet. I knew

there would be no congratulations,
but was sure Amanda would let us wait
with her and her 20 screens for midnight,
when the clocks tipped us closer to daylight

and she’d walk with us through the darkness
toward home. I would watch the hood
of stars and imagine each step
moving us to the end of summer

when my mother would return,
when oak and hickory leaves would dry
on the ground and pale yarrow would rise
at the roadside to the height of my hands.

Clare Banks

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