After a year spent in my neighborhood, the infatuation hasn’t subsided. I still adore walking around and taking in people’s home and watching people just living all around me. There is one little stretch of road nearby that is full of stray cats. I think its fun to walk down the street and look into the abandoned homes and play with (read: scare the shit out of) the strays. The other day I walked down and saw a little girl watching the cats. I sat down a respectful distance from her to get in on the action.
“I just fed them bread,” she informed me. She let me know which young cats were already mothers and who fed the cats. Then she asked me to play ball in the street, assuring me that it was okay as long as I made she didn’t get hit by a car. “If a car hits me, my mom will be real mad.”
We played toss for a while. With her little compact body not yet encumbered by growth spurts or womanly attributes was proportioned perfectly for athletics. She had a mean arm on her and could do volleyball spikes like a pro. After a while of throwing the ball, she asked if we could play kickball. I pointed out that the ball would certainly roll into a nearby busy street, but she would not be deterred. She gave the ball a mighty kick in my direction and it, of course, started rolling into the way of cars.
“Oh snap!” she yelled. “Let’s not play kickball anymore.” We went on a short run and then parted ways.
This little girl reminded me why being a kid is so great. She was open. All she wanted was a playmate and she was fearless about approaching me to get one. Life was so much easier before fear, fear that adults call practicality or reality, entered into the picture.
