Thirty Seven : Old Deck

The deck at mom’s house is old and worn, trampled half to death by the feet of children. Mine and Bean’s, sister’s, brother’s feet running up and down, in and out, back again and up onto the roof where the children can’t get us. I giggle at the thought of all the shenanigans had on that roof. The stories we invented, the world’s created and lost out of the imaginations of two bored boys. The smell of cow farms drifts by. Most people are offended. I take a deep breath, better than exhaust and the smell of fresh asphalt being poured diligently over the old. The smell of the city was suffocating.
Now Bean is having a baby daughter to go along with the one he inherited through marriage. More children to walk on the deck. It should be cared for soon – a project for my return. Sand and stain, prepare it for the next batch of tiny feet to stomp, skip, run over its wooden face. The stories it holds building. Stories I can read.

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