Sunday, July 16, 2017
I have a grand memory for many afternoons in my childhood. I recall details vividly, and almost all of them are rich and good. Memories like the rides across town to visit Ganny, standing up so I could see, in the front seat of the old black Oldsmobile which I later learned didn't have a reverse gear, and I remember at her house another day, my friend running into the barely visible clothesline, scraping her face. The yard had a small garden and toward the back, wild violets blanketed the ground. We didn't go there as often as I would have liked.
I remember people, places, events, and I can today, easily bring forth the emotions I had for each and every.
So it was with keenness and joy, that I watched two children during one of Dallas' many pop-up storms the other day. These downpours come out of clear blue skies which turn dark and threatening in mere minutes.
Both boys, one black and one white, about ten years old, were crossing from one's house I presume, to the other's, laughing and tagging one another as they squealed through the rain, prancing through the foot-deep water which pooled from the curb to cover most of the street.
Barefoot and happy were they!
I smiled the rest of my short drive home, wishing them a memory which might last.