gravel

When we were younger, we sat by the roads, knees like suns before our faces as we watched the cars go past. We used to come up with dreams, colorful tales concerning the passing cars; that proton sagas were made of crushed milo tins, car tires were made of licorice. The girl in the passing white Mercedes was a princess in disguise.

And then we would secretly, guiltily creep those chosen cars at night. Braving the parents, the hard heavy hands, the police at our backs as we scratched, scratched away at the car paint, hoping to spot a fleck, a spot, an idea of that bright green paint on milo tins. And we would get bored and collect gravel bits and pitch them at one another. The gravel would cut our hands, but it wouldn’t matter. We would gather more in a second. And soon, the sound of laughing boys rise up the heartland flats even as the sun begins to rise.

We go on to secondary school, jcs. Ns. To work and start building families of our own. And gradually, we drifted apart, the closeness became passing words, the claps on the backs became smiles. And then. Nothing. The gravel remains dead at our feet. The scabs on our hands remain uncovered.

I am now married to that princess in the white Mercedes and now I know that proton sagas are not made of milo tins. I have a job now, an office job and if I play it right, maybe I’ll get an increase at the year’s end. The old flats where we used to play are now gone, replaced by yellow new condominiums. I have a car of my own, and two kids, one boy, one girl. We can make ends meet.

And still, when I remember, I make it a point to stoop and gather some gravel, more stones now in my bigger hands. And I would smile, ignoring the small cuts on my hands as I throw them into the distance; at the friends I used to have. At the small boys in white singlets and buzz cuts laughing and dodging between the early morning cars, long gone.