Wednesday, September 17, 2008

At the creek at the park by our old house on Sequoia Street where we lived, my mom, my dad and my brother and me, we are feeding the ducks crusts of bread or popcorn from a paper grocery sack. The ground is green and soft, the ducks are dipping their beaks in and out of the water, honking at each other. One of us lets go. The sack blows into the creek, holding the bread crusts, floating there. My dad says we are going out for pizza, hoping we'll forget he's said this by the time we get home. Our house is white, with morning glories in the side yard and a front step where my dad and brother and I would a few years later stand with our brand new nintendo still in the box, on the outside, ringing the doorbell. We go there by bicycle and buggy, my brother and I buckled in, staring backwards, I'm looking down at my strawberry shortcake shoes and watching the park and the streets get smaller and farther and farther away.