My Earliest Memory of Pain
The sun hissed from the concrete, creaking in pain from the dry, Utah heat that sucks the moisture out of the air and leaves your elbows the color of ash.
I wandered outside of my apartment, edging towards the gravel parking lot in the center of the complex. There was little grass or open areas to play in, so local kids made due with what they had -- turning rocks into coveted instruments, and runt sized twigs fallen from trees into action figures. All of these items would morph into inventive, and sometimes dangerous, games we all wanted to play.
Twenty feet away from my apartment door I spotted a group of girls I recognized, all around the age of 5, same age as me. They were fixated on a razor-thin white rope, stretched as taut as a balancing act between two wooden stakes in the ground. The rope spanned a grassy island on the edge of the lot, and was a marking left over from construction work done earlier in the day. Each girl took turns walking up to the rope, which was thigh high on their little bodies, hopping over it to see who could clear it without taking a tumble. I wanted a part of this new game.Read More