I am eight years old

bare feet, callouses planted firmly on the linoleum floor in the kitchen

Everybody else is otherwise occupied

A rare moment of solitude in a chaotic household

Hot, it’s a hot night

and humid

I can almost hear the atmosphere

No fan, just an occasional breeze to brush the bangs off my sweaty forehead

The moon is waning, crickets are chirping, frogs are frogging

In the kitchen, a low-hanging lamp glows golden

This stolen moment, no one can take it from me

I hold it close in my memory

in my dreams

(c) 2023 Amy Barlow Liberatore/Sharp Little Pencil

At What’s Going On, the prompt is memory. I confess, the first thing I thought of was the song from Cats, and now Streisand is blistering that tune to death. But sometimes, amid the oh-so-hard memories of my childhood, a few moments remain. Unmatched, never forgotten. Those moments gave me hope.