In which we are young and Bobby dribbles and bangs the backboard and we laugh until our mothers call us in and the pole leans like a sunken tower and the shredded net flickers in the wind, the ball deflated in the weeds like a Halloween pumpkin left out in the cold. 

 

In which we are together in the front seat of a ‘57 Chevy and we glide down the Boulevard under restaurant lights and stars until the tires run bare and the bumper rusts and the Chevy sits on a jack, idle in the driveway, unprotected and forgotten. 

 

In which we are seated around the Sunday table and we pass food and grace and smiles until the bricks shift and fall out of place and the rain batters the windows, the screen door slams open and shut, open and shut. 

 

In which we are alone, the fence locked, and we lay in bed never quite comfortable, never quite able to wake up.

 

 

Adam Conner currently lives in New Jersey with his wife and two daughters.