It ended right where it began, as some things tend to do.

My grandma had this little bungalow in what I thought was the boondocks, all run down and chipped paint and neglect. But for a few weeks every summer since I could remember it was home. It was the summer of 1923, the year that I turned sixteen, that my grandma took me in. My daddy ran out on us in the middle of the night sometime in the beginning of March and my momma went pretty much off the deep end over the next couple of months, like some part of her just died, said that she couldn’t handle having me around. She claimed she didn’t like my attitude, but I think it was because I reminded her too much of Daddy. Either way, to Grandma’s I went.

I tried to keep busy because if I stayed busy, my mind was too full up of other things to think of my parents. But that plan didn’t last long. The regular thrills of Grandma’s bungalow were gone right quick and around late June I found myself moping around. I laid on my bed whenever I could, eating little, and always trying to find new pictures in the spackle on my ceiling. I obeyed Grandma when she told me to do things, but only when she used her Marjorie May voice. The one that meant trouble if I didn’t drag my lazy carcass out of bed and listen up.

Grandma worried about me, I think.  Maybe she saw bits of my momma in me. Her eyes squinted, like it hurt her to look at me, and she was quicker to frown than smile. She began to try and boot me out of the house. “Marjorie May,” she’d say. “Girl, you get out of this house!” And then she’d slam the door and lock it real quick. So I got nice and familiar with the woods around the bungalow.

One of these times I stumbled upon the prettiest little place among the trees. It was quiet and calm, sun shining through the leaves to dance on the water of a pond. I hated it. Quiet left room for thinking.

On the other side of the pond swung a rope from a tree, knotted near the bottom, and brand new. Someone had been here recently. I walked towards it, slipping on the wet rock. A crack of a branch in the woods caught my attention and I nearly jumped out of my shoes.

“S’all right,” said somebody, walking out of the trees. It was a barefoot boy, my age, with gangly limbs and eyes that sparked. “Didn’t mean t’ scare you.” He looked me up and down and apparently decided I was worth the trouble. “My apologies, miss,” he finished, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

I grinned, unable to resist, and said it was all right. We got to talking and we stayed by the side of his pretty little swimming hole until it was dark. He walked me home and it wasn’t until I was lying in bed that I realized I hadn’t caught his name.

It was the middle of July that Grandma started entertaining more, as a sort of intervention. I tolerated this and I socialized with a kind of stubbornness that said I would do what she told me but I wouldn’t be happy about it.

August fourth. That was the evening Alice Branton came for dinner, bringing her grandson. He was in town just for the summer and his name was Leo, but even more important was the light that flashed in his eyes. I’d only seen eyes like that on one person.

He winked as I was introduced. He remembered me.

And so Grandma was victorious. I began to smile more, getting out of that house just like she wanted me to, because I was always haring all about the woods with Leo. He was real good to be around. He was sweet and it seemed like he knew all kinds of things. Even better, he talked too much for me to think any. A week after I met him he held my hand and I decided to let him. I liked the way he felt and I liked the way he smiled when he did it.

We kept on coming back to the swimming hole.

The end of August came and it was at the swimming hole when Leo told me he was leaving. August twenty-eighth. Summer was over, he said. I didn’t want him to leave. I’d gotten attached to him and if he left, it’d just be another hole in me that I’d have to find someone to fill up.

“Marjorie,” Leo said, his leg swinging all lazy-like in the open air. We’d managed to scale the rope-swing’s tree once and we’d made a habit of sitting up there and just watching when we didn’t feel like swimming. “I’m real sorry. I don’t wanna go, but I have to.”

He put a hand under my chin but I didn’t want to look at him. I was too afraid I’d cry. “Marjorie May, look here.” So I looked there and he moved his hand to my cheek. Leo stared at me, seeming a little scared, but those eyes still snapped. “I know I’m leaving and all but I’ll miss you an awful lot, and if you’re gonna miss me just as much, I was hoping you’d wanna, um, be my girl. I’ll be back next summer, so don’t you worry about that.” His voice shook, like he was real afraid I’d say no.

I couldn’t believe it. He was leaving, but he wanted me to be his, and that's all I wanted, so all I did was nod. He smiled and out of nowhere Leo kissed me.

Things happened so slowly then. You’d think that’d make it easier to remember but all it did was make it all blur.

We were kissing and then the branch we were sitting on snapped. The two of us pulled apart, every man for himself, and we scrambled to catch a hold for ourselves. We were pretty high up. Stupidly high. Somehow my fingers scraped the thick rope, tied to a branch below us, and I latched on tight. My shoulders wrenched and my palms burned but I stopped.

A sharp crack made me look down. Leo was there, laying on the ground at this awkward angle. His name ripped hard from my throat and I slid down the rope, my hands burning worse. I already knew but I still had to make sure. With a gentle hand I turned him over and when I saw all of him I clapped my hands over my mouth to keep from screaming.

He was in town just for the summer and his name was Leo, but even more important was the light that flashed in his eyes just then. I’d only seen eyes like that on one person and that was my momma, my momma when that one part of her died.

That is where it ends.