a memory

It's really just a snapshot memory, but it flashes through my head sometimes, and with it comes a feeling of satisfaction. The light is gone from the day, but it's not so dark yet that you can't still see a bit of navy blue in the sky. The trees are silhouettes towering above me, their tops sometimes leaning toward one another and sometimes swaying apart. Above me, their leaves make a sound like music as they rustle. Above me, a light glows from the porch. Standing tall above me and the cooling grill, my dad is talking with someone; he is chuckling. Everything is upward in this vision, and partly that's because I'm small, and partly that's because I'm seated. Mostly it's because it's summer, and as I stretch my bare legs against the soft latticework of an outdoor chair, my eyes are turned toward the fading blue above, where I know they will fly soon. It's that time of night, just before true dark sets in, and as I listen to my dad's quiet nighttime voice a few feet away, I tune it out; I tune it all out; because now they are coming. From the dark boughs of the woods behind our house they fly, bat wings stretched the short distance they span, bodies gliding over me. As soon as I've seen them, I've seen them depart, but they stay with me, in my mind, this fleet of flying mammals. I've seen them many times—I know their habits, I know when to wait for them. But this one time is the one that imprinted, this time with my dad and the smell of the grill in the background, the soft web of the chair supporting my viewing.