Wednesday, December 28, 2005

Summer 1990

There is a red house on the top of the hill residing on the last corner of Quail Avenue. The entire backyard of the house on Quail is shaded by and gargantuan oak tree some estimated 150 years old. Under the shade of the great oak tree play a 8 year old Mexican boy with stoic unfeeling black eyes and a incredibly muscular physique for and 8 year old, and a 6 year old sickly thin half Italian and half Swedish girl, whose eyes often get her called a Jawa by her father and mother, both avid Star Wars fans. The girl and the boy hold hands lying on their backs, staring at the sky through the cracks in the trees. They don't speak to each other; however, they roll over and whisper secrets of unknown origin into each other’s ears. Their secrets are of an invented language that apparently, evokes fits of uncontrollable laughter. "Kenny, don't breathe the air." "Why not." "It's made of lava."

Earlier that day the girl and the boy played Pretty Pretty Princesses (which in hindsight the girl thinks may have something to do with the adult boys affinity for dressing in drag), built the Alamo, flew a plane in their mother's closet, got married (much to the boy's disgust) and attempted to fly by jumping off a very low corner of the roof. The boy scuffed is knee and cried when he landed only to be held and bandaged by the girl who could, at the time, handle her scrapes and bruises like a pro.

"If I can't breathe, what should I do?" "Just hold my hand tighter until it hurts." "Okay"
"Hey Kenny?" "GOD! What? I'm TRYING to hold my breath" "Just don't let go of me."

I wont.

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