On the days when we were poor without yet knowing it, the firemen came and released the water from the fire hydrants. Heavy bursts of water cascaded out into the alley and we jumped in and jumped over them for hours. The crabapple trees that grew along the concrete dropped hard, marble-like fruit and we rolled our feet over them until the skin was broken and bruised.
We never saw the firemen themselves. Or at least our eyes never perceived their presence. They opened up the floodgates like benevolent gods bestowing mercy on their beloved. The kids on the other side of town had well-manicured yards and pools, but we had a wonderland of chaos! Kids everywhere, water spewing out, it was pure joy!
Those summer days were hot. Our hair soaked with sweat from playing outside, from running between houses as though it were our mission. We had so much to accomplish! We were so important!
And all of the pain and confusion we experienced behind closed doors seeped out through our pores. Not in words or fears, but through tireless distraction under the heat of a burning sun. We toiled--gathering non-edible red berries in bowls, playing on pavement, bandaging cuts and scrapes. The stolen childhoods were given back for an afternoon and we opened our hands wide and gave thanks.
That is the way I remember the days when we were poor without knowing it...
"It's lovely to know that the world can't interfere with the inside of your head."
-Frank McCourt, Angela's Ashes
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