Summer
The grass was unruly on the slope of the hill by the railroad tracks. A man, a volunteer, would take his ridermower around the adjacent playground. The hill was too steep, however, for any riders. We bent our knees at hard angles to traverse the expanse.
We were barefoot, no socks to cover our delicate ankles. No fear of ticks haunted us yet. The only thing on our minds was collecting the perfect wildflowers - Queen Anne’s Lace, Bluebells, purple thistles. We wrenched them from the earth, roots and all. We were as obstreperous as the field that summer, every summer.
We rode our bikes back home, somnolent for the moment, but our hazy heads full of plans for that night’s flashlights and fireflies.
Our mothers took our uprooted blossoms from us, wrapped their ends in damp paper towels, stacking them with the flowers of expeditions past.
AB
