That was the summer of 1994. The summer Daniel learned that some years don’t reel—they just end. And you don’t get to see the last frame coming. You only feel it, afterward, like a song you can’t stop humming, even when you’ve forgotten the words.
It was Live at the Paramount , 1991. Daniel had seen it a hundred times, but tonight he was watching for something else. Something buried. reeling in the years 1994
The sprinkler outside kept turning. A jet of water arced over the petunias, catching the late sun, making a brief, failed rainbow. That was the summer of 1994
Daniel reached out and took his father’s hand. It was warm. Still warm. You only feel it, afterward, like a song
The phone rang. Daniel let it go. It rang again. On the third ring, his mother answered in the other room. Her voice was low, careful. Then a sharp inhale.
“You’re not reeling,” Daniel said. It wasn’t a question.