Sunday, September 16, 2007


playing in the sand
rubbing two sticks together
the way the Indians did in westerns

whatcha doin?

gonna start a fire

supposed to burn those leaves over there

be easier if you used matches

too timid to admit I was pretending

in the house quietly pulled matches
from the hot pad holder drawer
turned and ran out the door
put the matches in her hand

the fourth match lit the leaves
thick gray smoke curled slowly toward treetops
scared, we tried to put it out
buried the flames under more leaves
that made it hungrier
carried handfuls of sand from the driveway
that was too little
shouts came from the barn
buckets of water sloshing
mom, dad, and cousin running down the hill

four empty buckets laid on their sides
smoldering orange, brown, black,
and gray soggy leaves
everyone was quiet as eyes were upon us
we looked at the ground

in the house, dad stepped into the backroom
leaned against the door jam
he extended his hand saying nothing
from the coat pocket I removed the matches
placed them in his large calloused hand
our eyes meeting
he turned and walked out the door

1 comment:

ag said...

sweeet! childhood stories.. :) that reminds of a very funny story that one of my friends said about his childhood. ofcourse, i had my own and did come across so many.. but the way he said it... i laughed my ass off!

love the childhood memories..