The wind smells familiar; a heady, grassy scent, one reliant upon the weekly cut of grass at the cemetery across the street. Just down the road from home, adjacent from the cemetery, is a field where a group of children play. A sunset settles over the lot, turning the bright green of grass and deep orange of the clay into shadowed hues. The children are covered in dirt and grime, grass stains adorning previously dry cleaned jeans. A tired shout about laundry waits for them at the door. The honeysuckle they aren’t supposed to eat makes their lips and fingers slightly sticky, the smell of the flower wafting up wrapping around their noses. Crickets begin to sing, and laughter fades as exhaust begins wearing on them. The swings sit still, only for a moment, “one more time, I swear I’ll jump higher than you this time!” shouted into the cooling evening air as tiny arms grab squeaky chains. Darkness creeps in, and then, suddenly, the main road down the field is lit up from the streetlights. Orange, buzzing lights immediately begin attracting large, ominous moths, fast creatures blinded by an artificial sun. Then, on three, bodies are thrown from swings. Scraped knees and bruised elbows are accompanied by arguments over who won. Rough shoves of the shoulder, a sudden race to the end of the street, and the streelights guide them home.

We all knew when the streetlights came on, it was time to go home. Wherever that may be.