Ray

I can only think of a few ways in which we might honor a writer of Ray Bradbury’s caliber:

We might walk miles around the town of Morris, seeking dandelions to make dandelion wine, which of course correlates to his novel of the same name.

Upon reaching the campus greenhouse, we might write “RIP Ray Bradbury” on the grimy windows, using childish finger letters.

The greenhouse door might be left open, and we might enter, look around, and then attempt (and fail) to noodle in the coy pond.

We might find a patch of wild plums, and rescue a few branches from tent worms’ egg-speckled gauze.

Still hunting dandelions, we might stumble upon a small bird, hopping pitifully near the road.  It might be molting, covered with rotted hunks of down and patches of sleek new feathers.  Failing to locate a nest, we might carry the bird far back from the road, name it Ray, and wish it luck.

We might remember, finally, that The Martian Chronicles saw us through high school Modern English, a class populated by easy A seekers, sleepers, and potheads.  “There Will Come Soft Rains” reverberated like a promise on the gummy concrete walls, and we knew, even as the teacher fast-forwarded through the sex scene in the old “Romeo and Juliet,” that things would be better someday.

 

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