Daring Gravity

Two boys watch their step as they approach the blue slide. It connects the steep path to the concrete landing that leads to the barn—a sense of young adventure lingers around them. I watch them from the other side, at the top of a hill that offers a foreign view.

I grew up in cities, and I’ve moved from one busy city to another ever since. Buildings, artificial lights, and familiar sirens that are anything but strange.

I watch those boys squirt some water on the plastic surface, giggling, and eager to see if their standing slide will meet their expectations. I hope they do.

While Tim and Dan order drinks and wait for our pizzas to be ready, I stand on this hill. I admire the uneven lines stacking across the horizon, like layers in a birthday cake. My sister loves that particular type of cake.

I think of her. I think of our childhood, surrounded by buildings—air that smells of hurry; careful, let me know when you get home—a vision swings by: banana and ice cream bowls. We sit across from our neighbor, separated by barred doors. My mom thought it’d be special to have a sweet snack. Our neighbor’s mom wasn’t home. She would ask later if she was allowed to come over.

Then, I think of the huge terrace connected to our apartment on the first floor. Big enough for me to learn how to ride a bike, big enough to learn how to turn, inside enough to stay safe.

I wonder if our lives would be any different if we had had moments like this one. Quiet moments of daring gravity on a slide while our parents got some pizza for a boring Sunday afternoon on a hill.