The Door Into Summer

There's malice and there's magic in every season.

Somewhere underneath the Mississippi River, there's a Honda Civic. Next to it is a steamboat anchor.

The Honda's windows are open. Muddy light filters through the windshield and into the sightless eyes of its driver.

She was just twenty five and loose from college only four years. The degree got her the interview but the smarts got the job. The Honda was the first new car she'd every owned. Through college it was the hand-me-down Oldsmobile that took her from party to class.

She was thinking about dinner. She was thinking about him again, and whether she should tell her parents about him yet. But this night, she's a little tired and it's good to feel the sun and listen to Marvin Gaye on the radio. Her roommate is gone on vacation and the apartment will be quiet and cool when she gets home.

Suddenly, a tearing. The world is wrenched down. Air screams through the open windows. A sensation of wonderment fills her. She sees the car falling, herself in it. Interstate 35 disappears and turns into one open lane of water. There's no life flashing before her eyes, instead it's something more quiet and strange. I must be a bird, she thinks, not remembering the Christmases in Flagstaff or the time her grandparents had the egg hunt on the front lawn.

She remembers the summers, when the blackbirds flew over the garden. She must be a blackbird now.

The Honda hits the water and the jolt sends her head crashing into the door pillar. But it's still summer. The water's warm as her blood streams out the open window.