I throw the brightly colored fruit up into the air and then catch it again.
In the blistering heat of the day, leaning under the shade of the tree is pure bliss.
I bounce the fruit in my hand again.
The tree grows next to my parent’s cliché, our white picket fence.
I lean my head back to rest upon the rough bark of the giant old oak and think of absolutely nothing.
I suddenly sit up. I hear the screech of tires against the newly laid asphalt of our road. Through my widening brown eyes I see the top of a big red truck, coming up fast toward me, just behind the picket fence.
I have no time to run. My throat is swollen silently shut; I cannot scream.
The truck crashes through the fence, the tires squealing with their owner’s attempts to break.
I am flung back by a piece of the fence, now reduced to shrapnel by this big truck. The tree trunk stops the truck in its tracks. Now it lays silent and it is hard to imagine it was the creature responsible for the squeals and crashes.
A silent man droops in the driver’s seat. Was it really he who drove this beast?
I see a small circle at the feet, the tires, of the beast. I crawl toward it.
Once the symbol of bliss to me, now the symbol of tragedy.
What do you think?