Long Weekend

They pulled up and piled out, eager to stand, to stretch, to smell and to see. They emptied the trunk, moving bags, coolers, and pillows over the damp soil, into the cabin that smelled of mothballs and mold, a dead trapped air. Beer cans cracked open, swimsuits slipped in to, and they hurried down to the beach. Later, they built a fire, sap crackling in the logs, and stared at stars, wondrous.

The emptiness they all felt, bottomless and dark, but couldn’t translate, couldn’t move past their lips. But they knew, their wide eyes told, the others felt the same.


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