Do you remember that night in July two summers ago? The one where we sat atop of the pavilion in the park? The day had been way too hot to venture outside, at 105 degrees, there was nothing to do but melt. So when the sun went down we all tentatively crept out of our houses, weary of being scorched by the angry sun. We were ecstatic to discover that without the sun it had dropped to a much more pleasant 70.
On bikes we rode to the old quarry. Stripping off layers we jumped into the cool, cleansing water. We played like young otters, sinuously swimming and splashing full of energy. I think Tina even learned to swim that evening because every other time before she would only sit on the edge saying how no one had ever taught her. But that evening she swam as if she had been born in water.
After drying off and stopping to get pizza from O'Zetti's we parked our bikes in the moonlit park. Do you remember how the tree tops seemed to practically glow from the starlight? It was breathtaking. And then Mark had the idea we should play hide-n-go-seek like we used to: Linda was it first and she started loudly counting, "One! Two! Three!..." we all darted off, running as fast as we could, shouting with exhilaration.
As we ran you motioned me to follow you, and so I did. You took me to the pavilion that those bands would play from on Friday nights. "Up there!", You whispered, "No one ever looks up." We monkey-climbed up on top of the roof and laid down. Concealed atop the pavilion we admired the bright speckles of constellations in the sky. That was one of my favourite nights, and they never did find us: we had to come down after an hour and a half. No one ever does look up.
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