True, summer mornings haunt her with epilogues of Tennessee: the saturated warmth, the succulent green, the sobbing breeze, and days that once were lived. Some past things should be forgotten— but who can forget? Evenings, the landlords finally break their silence overhead—a consistent mumble of voices. She leaves the front door unlocked, seeking the unpeopled lawn out back. Cast full length on the bench swing, feet dangling, loosened hair shimmering and fanning over the edge like a peacock's tail. (I heard her speak to the lady who bore God for time on end.) And the swing rocks, rocks, rocks, arm-in-arm with the wind— she pleads with the lady for a selfless countenance and a deeper bearing of womanhood. Such prayers have been answered. . .and perhaps she is not so far from this as she believes. . . When evening settles on practiced heels, it brings memories of Tennessee: times when summer stars left the sky to congregate in the forms of fireflies in the trees and fields where they kindled, only to fade.