Phantom Limbs Read Online Free PDF Page B

benediction, reaching toward the sky.
    Though winters stilled the beauty springs bestowed,
And shadows fell where footprints once were new,
Within my heart the heady mem’ries glowed,
As fresh and precious as dawn’s sparkling dew.
    This spot where souls and secrets mingled bold,
Where tender lips surrendered to the night,
Is now awash in sun’s unearthly gold,
Thus rendering the scene a holy site.
    New hope illuminates days dimmed by grief;
You are and e’er shall be my heart’s relief.
    Meg was not a terrible muse.
    Waiting to see if she’d comment about the magnolia photo was killing me. She was probably out for the evening — it was Saturday night, sacred date night for couples. For losers like me, options were kind of pathetic. The guys were getting together at D’Amico’s house for pizza and a slasher movie. They kept texting, cajoling me into coming over, but I wasn’t in the mood. Dara texted, too, saying, Wanna go eat?
    I was about to decline, but then Meg posted a new picture of herself with Football Guy. Apparently he also plays guitar. Fuck me. They had their mouths open in the same position, so I guessed they were singing together. Suddenly I felt like I could use a change of scenery.
    Sure , I texted Dara.
    I waited for her downstairs, watching the NBA playoffs with my dad, while my mom, whose sports interests centered on football, paged through some work papers. My dad and I didn’t know all that much about basketball, but even we knew to root for the Bulls and to hate the Cavaliers. If Meg’s dad had been watching with us, he would’ve yelled for Derrick Rose and complained about bad calls and commented endlessly about pick-and-rolls and triple-doubles and flagrants and other things my dad and I had little comprehension of. I wondered if he was watching the game in California, and if Meg was watching with him. Meg could holler at basketball with the best of them.
    My dad and I cheered as we watched, and soon I heard the screech of Dara’s brakes in the driveway.
    My mom sighed loudly, then looked at me over her reading glasses. “Can’t you get that girl to stop tearing into the driveway like a maniac? You tell her if she can’t drive safely, she won’t be driving you at all!”
    Sure. I’ll do that. Right after I kiss my balls goodbye.
    “If you’d let me get my license,” I said, pulling my jacket on, “I could drive myself.”
    She went back to her papers. “When you get your fifty hours behind the wheel, you can get your license.”
    “Nobody cares about that stupid log!” I’d turned sixteen in October — more than six months ago — but the combination of my training schedule and my mom’s reluctance to let me drive in winter conditions meant I still had no license.
    “
I
care.” She gave me a pointed look. I met my dad’s eyes; we both knew it was futile to argue with my mom over anything related to child safety. “Keep me posted on where you are,” she said, glancing around for her phone.
    The smell of the lilacs hit me as soon as I stepped out into the warm evening. It wasn’t even dark yet; a last remnant of orange glowed at the horizon. Some kids down the street were shooting hoops and trash-talking in the waning light of dusk. It was almost summer.
    Lou Reed’s distinctive voice emanated from Dara’s car — one of those poetic, stoned-sounding Velvet Underground songs. We were in the 1960s or 1970s tonight.
    Dara sat in the passenger seat, her head tipped back, eyes closed. I peered in at her through the open window. “So what’s going on here?”
    “You’re driving,” she said without opening her eyes.
    “How come?”
    “Guys should know how to drive a stick.”
    There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere.
    “The manual transmission is practically obsolete,” I informed her.
    “
You’re
obsolete,” she mumbled.
    I rolled my eyes and walked around and opened the driver’s-side door. I fastened my seat belt and looked over at Dara. Her head