Recess

The grass was soft. It felt like running your hand over your father’s best ties. Ten years later, when I graduated, this patch of heaven had been reduced to yellow stubble by ten more classes of glow in the dark sneakers. But back then the grass was as young as I. God’s green earth met man’s black asphault. We could get close enough to Indian landing Road to feel the wind from the cars push us back on to grass. Then Miss Brophy would yell for us to be safe. I was smaller then. As close to cute as I ever will be. I had a bowl cut. It was tag, and red shirts were it. I had a red shirt. Matt had a white shirt. Ready. Go. He was made of matchsticks. I was made of logs. It was not the fairest of chases. I grazed his shirt. He didn’t believe me, so we both kept running. As we jumped roots I shortened the gap. My legs were longer. He turned his coconut head to see just how close I was. I gave him a tag that was more like a push. He turned and his head hit a low thick branch like a softball on a Louisville slugger. He fell to the ground alternately crying and laughing. The giant knot on his head felt like a stress ball. We were young enough to worry and old enough to laugh. The perfect Godsmack.