Margaret Walks Across the High School Stage on a Warm June Morning
The hills of southern Ohio rose in the distance, their ridges turning a deep, dusty blue as the sun began to slip behind the tree line. The wind was moving through the leaves of our old maple tree, making a soft, rustling sound that felt like water running over smooth stones.
“We should plant some more tomatoes next spring,” Brian said, looking down at the small garden patch by the fence. “The ones we put in late did not have enough time to take root.”
“We can do that in April,” I said, leaning my head against his shoulder. “We can start them in the kitchen window before the frost clears.”
“Kayla will be home for Thanksgiving,” he said, the swing creaking gently as we rocked back and forth. “She said she would come by to help with the leaves.”
“She will be too busy with her college friends,” I said, smiling into the quiet air. “But she will come by for the cookies anyway.”
The light on the hills was fading now, shifting from gold to a soft, dusky purple that filled the valley. We sat together on the wooden slats of the swing, holding hands as the first evening stars began to appear through the branches of the maple.
