Mom’s voice whizzed past my six-year-old ears before the morning sun swallowed it up like it does everything else—the moon, the stars and dreams. I didn’t yell back a response. I had better things to do.
I was in the backyard, standing barefoot on the wet grass. I love the grass. I love the way it catches the sun in the morning and how it crunches under my feet and bounces right back up after I’ve stomped on it with all my might. But that happens to be my second favorite memory. My first is Mr. Tim.
Mr. Tim was my friend. My secret friend (you know how little kids like to have secret friends). We first met behind the giant old beech tree. No one liked to go near it, but I did. Big trees don’t scare me.
It was springtime. I know because I could smell the lilacs and the leaves were the color of freshly squeezed lemonade. The faded deck above me creaked like Nana’s old knees as I eyed the steep slope. Then, like always, I ran-skipped a few steps, then dropped and slid the rest of the way on my bottom. It was so fun, even though I knew later Mom would give me ten with her wooden spoon.
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