Donna Remembered

Donna Divine was my neighbor

and my physical superior. The day

we met, she knocked me down and

jacked my arm behind my back.

"Take it back," she shouted.

"I didn't do anything!"

Her younger brother Robert said,

"She doesn't like anybody saying.

she's pretty."

With that, she jacked my arm higher.

"Ok-ok, I take it back!"

I sat up, rubbing my arm, then ran for

the safety of our garage, yelling,

"You're pretty, and you smell like soap!"

We were eleven years old back then.

Our houses sat together on down-sloping

ledges with footpaths that led to the beach.

We had concrete patios in the gap between

our back doors and the sharply rising hillside.

When the sun followed its route over our roof tiles,

its rays touched the peaks, then hurried past the

gaps so as not to disturb the eternal gloom.

We'd lean out our windows on Sunday's

approaching sunsets and chat across the divide.

In time, Donna gave up her brawling ways. Still,

she excelled at skimming stones, ice skating,

and dodgeball. And she was the picture of health,

if I may be so bold.