Silly question, right?
“I have some idea what we can do.” She smiles coyly.
“Wait,” I say, “Come look at the field I told you about.”
“Wow. It’s wonderful.” The moon is polishing snow diamonds across the expanse. We stand side by side, gazing silently like old married folks. I hold my mug of cocoa out, we clink cups.
“It’s beautiful,” she finally says. “I get why you had such a great time here. I never had anything like this to run around in.”
“Really?”
“Nope. In summer, we played in parking lots. A small manufacturing company had a basketball hoop, so boys hung there. We’d sit on the grass and talk. There was tag around the neighborhood, ducking between houses and down alleys. You learned which houses didn’t want kids running through, which ones had angry dogs, all that.”
As I close the door, she chuckles. “That reminds me. One girl named Lisa had a Golden Retriever who they’d bred. In first grade, she brought in a puppy for show and tell. She called her dog ‘the bitch.’ The whole room freaked out. Mrs. Harrison had to quiet everyone down and say that this was one time that it was OK to use the word.”
When my laughter subsided I ask if she wants to watch TV.
“Na.” She gives me a look of raw arson. We adjourn to the living room and stretch out under the twinkling tree.