The Summer of ‘98-A Short Story

I remember the summer of ‘98 like it was yesterday. The sun was a relentless tyrant, and the air was thick with the smell of cut grass and dusty sneakers. The neighborhood kids, a motley crew of preteens with scraped knees and boundless energy, spent every waking hour playing street soccer in front of old Mr. Atley’s house. He hated us, and we loved the thrill of annoying him. He was the grumpy Goliath, and we were the plucky Davids, a soccer ball our only sling. The best player on the street was Kevin. He was a year older than the rest of us, with a mop of sandy hair and a cocky grin. He was faster, more agile, and had a way of dribbling the ball that made it seem like an extension of his own foot. He knew it, too, and his constant showboating drove me crazy. I was a decent player, but Kevin always found a way to make me look like a clumsy oaf, stealing the ball from me with a quick flick of his ankle or nutmegging me with a cheeky grin. One day, our game intensified. It was just Kevi...
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Struggles

Twenty four lunar cycles and more

Babble is constant, silence is speech

Most have a ton, none yet we see

Eye contact a taboo

Touch he yearns


Attention span is fleeting

Solitary play unbridled

Evasive maneuvers the rule

Some days are sunny

Most days are dim


Nature or nurture, not one can say

Accident or not

More questions remain

Answers are sparse

Denials appealing


Too early for certain, but differences endure

What can one do?

Shout or scream an option

To cry in silence, what if the tear drum is empty?


Opinions are swell

Entertain hope is all

Despair avoid

Optimists embrace 

Naysayers circumvent

For only time will tell


 

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