Summer. In my family, age-wise we were same generation but all over a twelve year spectrum of chrysallis difference.
That summer I blew out my breath, a tired anxious about any "issue" sigh, and sort of moped over to Mom. "What's wrong?" She asked. We were all switching up clubhouses.
'Honestly, I was torn between spending the summer as a colonial and pioneer settler. Carrie"s gonnah use the log cabin as a mansion. You think Dad can get his buddies to move it?"
"Your father doesn't have buddies."
"Is it our project then????"
"'Fraid so."
"Okay I'll organize but we'll let Mike be Boss."
"Got it."
That summer our mom kept asking the boys, "You're gonna marry her too?" Of all my girlfriends.
We grew three watermelons and laughed with Daddy when Mama wouldn't let the spit out seeds be wiped off faces. She"d already washed our faces getting ready for bed but we hadn't done hands and teeth yet when Daddy got home frim the train station. 'Plaining about thirsty but proud of leaving sports on TV at a bar. Mom looked at his state of wrinkled, pulled his tie from his change pocket, and rallied, "Let's eat ONE of the Watermelons!!!!". People chucked toothbrush and hairbrush and made way to the back door that Daddy'd had a man fix.
The boygirl saw the cooking fire smoke get chokey damp so she knew it was later morning. Since this Pol Pot character, that's what her big brother had called "the man," had renamed the villages in Cambodia, the boygirl felt more content to picture living in the world.
Most everybody was deaf. And some senses returned over time like some colors of the rainbow seeping back to mind; mind connecting that sound, that texture with its thing.
The child pedaled. She was the only one who knew she was a she. And not just a girl child, but a Ftench girl
She looked like a duck and she didn't know why but it meant she got to ride the bicycle. The playung cards clucked and clattered into tiny bells made from
Couldn't remember the holiday, but there'd been decorating.
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