The Hill
I never learned to flatter, to dove like a wisp of white grace, instead challenging boys to footraces and tackling them into grass stains, tumbling down the hill like green walnuts, fragrant and bitter. Eloquent slang eluded me, so when my brothers’ friends teased I made a hard fist and aimed for the weak bird between their legs. I was alligator, jaw and scales, and they were white- bellied fish, polishing my incisors. If I wanted, I could be the hero. If not, there was always the hill breaking our fall, my bruised shins, a smudge of mud across my shoulder.
Photo Credit: solarisgirl
Absolutely loved this tiny story. Cheered me up too!