With sticks and stones, to pass our time, we roamed the countryside. Like our mouths, the earth was dry. The sun poured down on our joy ride.
Summer holidays always bruised my ankles and my knees. Once it gave me a deep cut on my forehead for trying to climb a tree. I carry the mark even today.
Little inventions were part of this mid-year Christmas. Mostly games and nick names. In one of the games I was the captain of the village bus.
Sometimes there were discoveries -Like a new road to Geraldine’s house, a wild guava tree- or how to open a can of grease.
Dirt and we were one. Evening baths were a must. Morning’s were optional. Every little boy and every little girl had a crush. And every night was a long wait for the morning Sun.
When the moon arose between the branches, and silence rested on roofs, stories and secrets were exchanged in murmurs between pillows.
Television was for older people. We watched flat stones skip on water and counted how many times they hopped. Once, we tried to climb the church’s steeple.
Many summers have passed since then. And I have two long minutes before the signal turns green. The car is hot. I sit here and think of Summer when she was a friend.