Trees sprint past my front windows as I drive down the long lane that leads to my house. Summer is in its final throes and there is something nostalgic about the way the air feels, almost as if the year is taking its final breath. Work will dry up soon and I'll be back to scrambling through night shifts at whatever minimum wage job I can scrounge up.

I should start looking.

My tires squeal as I pull my 1998 Subaru to a halt at the end of my driveway. The crunch of my boots on the gravel grates in my ears when I swing my leg out from my car. I wipe the sweat from my forehead with a yellowing towel and attempt to throw it on the hood, but it misses and lands next to the passenger's seat. I'll get it in the morning.

The garage door resists me as I tug on the rusted handle. It finally clicks into place and I heave the door upwards; the sound sends birds flying from hiding in the surrounding forest. I rub my hands together to remove the red from the door and try to resist wiping them on my white serving shirt. Every time I walk into the garage the scent of my father's long-dormant carpentry bench assaults my nostrils. I wipe the sawdust I collected throughout the garage on the edge of a faded red “Welcome!” mat and, finally, I jam my keys into the lock.

I scream “Mom!” as I walk in the door. She's come at me enough times with a shotgun for me to remember it's impolite to forget to announce yourself. I can hear the sounds of the TV shopping network from downstairs. I hope they weren't selling sweaters today, the boxes have been piling up lately. If I have to dress like a 60-year-old man for much longer, my eggs will dry up before I can even think about having kids.

“Bills, is that you?"

I drop my boots on the inside of the door and throw my bag on the side table. The shower is calling my name but I dutifully walk down to see how Mom’s doing. She is sitting in front of the television, phone in-hand, barely turning her head toward the sound of my footsteps. Her chair sags to fit the contours of her ever-growing body and rocks slightly as she lifts the phone to dial the number on the screen.

“Mom, Stop.”

I stride toward the chair to take the phone from her hand, but she grips it and moves it closer to her body.

“Let me go. Your father would love this,” she says as she extends her unoccupied hand toward the television.

The woman on the TV was showing off a navy blue sweater with a single, green stripe across the chest. I think I remember Dad wearing something like that when I was young, which means it’s still sitting in the closet next to all his other stuff.

I sigh and let her squander what’s left of Dad’s money. It’s not like I have time to meet anyone, anyway.

Talking to my Mom for too long tends to become circular so without saying anything more, I return to the first floor. Our ranch house is nested inside of a hill, so Dad took the opportunity to build a balcony off the side of the living room. I always begged him to put a slide from the balcony down to the bottom of the hill but I got too old before that ever happened. All that’s left out there is the foldable chair I forgot to bring inside during the rainstorm last week.

Before I commit to taking a shower, I decide to take in the summer air while I still can. I open the sliding door to the balcony and try to avoid the little puddles in the crevices of the wood as I walk toward my chair. What was once a deep, winter-green canvas is now bleached by the sun and dotted with debris that the rain brought in. I wipe off the seat and get some of the red from the garage door on my chair. Thoroughly defeated, I sit down anyway. I’ll wash my work pants tomorrow.

Across from my house is a field that used to grow some sort of cash crop, but now only holds various wildflowers and the occasional shrub. Sometimes a row of sunflowers will sprout up out of nowhere, but this summer has been particularly unfruitful. I wonder if Dad was planting them all along.

He smoked a pack a day so I wasn’t too surprised when he got sick. I’d been telling him to quit since elementary school. Mom, though, couldn’t be consoled. She begged God to take her too. Dad would just smile and pat her head through it all. It pissed me off.

I start rocking back and forth on my chair, even though it is by no means supposed to move like that. I set my feet against the balcony’s railing and keep the chair tilted at an angle so I can watch the sky. A few birds, probably the ones I scared off, are returning to their homes in the forest. One of them catches my eye. He looks pitch black from where I’m sitting and he’s trailing behind the other birds. I will him to come toward me to get a better look, but I’m starting to think he might be hunting for his next meal. I consider grabbing the shotgun to see if I can help him out, but I decide to let nature run its course.

A cool breeze grazes my cheek and I startle as my trance is broken. The sweat droplets that still grace my forehead dry and I watch the blackbird close in on its prey. It dives out of my sight and I take the opportunity to stand and make toward the door. As I’m about to open the screen I hear a thud behind me.

The bird is sitting on the balcony with a broken wing in its mouth. I gag and run inside, feeling as though I’d just witnessed something dangerous.