That Day
Gaden Sousa
I was one or two—or in-between the two. Mum, Dad, and I were at a friend’s. I’ll never remember their names, but the names aren’t important. They had a son, Josh. We were friends in the way all two-year-olds were friends. We were friends because our parents were. The living room of his house went straight from the hallway out to the backyard. I think there were more adults in the house than just mine and Josh’s. Thomas the Tank Engine was on the TV. I’ll never forget that blue train smiling at all the little boys and girls. Entertaining our small, fragile minds with his wide-eyed stare. His grey face animated in a way to comfort all the children watching. Mum asked for a tea, ‘Milk and one, thanks.’ Dad said he didn’t want anything and nibbled on a single biscuit that had been generously surrounded with hummus, tzatziki, and cheddar cheese. He was skinny then. The adults talked about this and that, in the kind of polite chatter of not-really-close-friends; brought together because their children were the same age.
Eventually, Josh’s dad led us down the hallway, the walls looming above my teeny tiny head. Me in the lead, Josh behind, or maybe the other way around. Outside, the sunlight promised us play. The shine was overwhelming, my little eyes barely able to decipher the brightness of the world. My eyes adjusted, absorbing the grand playground that awaited us. A garden as big as the earth. An endless vista of play and adventure. Rich forest grass, soft to our weak legs. Bushes plump and round for us to run and hide in. A world away at the back of the garden, on a slight slant, was a fence marking the perimeter of our play. Above us, trees splintered the glowing ball of white, carving up its rays so we could watch the shadow patterns run across our chubby skin. I vaguely recall an almost-hill perfect for the yellow tricycle that looked like it had been made by a twoyear-old’s dreams. It waited for us, expectantly. Josh’s dad went into his workshop. We got to playing. The shed had been allowed to flow into the paradise. Cable leads lay dead amongst the grass, off-cuts of pine wood filled the air with their scent. Nails, not-quite-nailed-in, stood upright like rusted soldiers. Tools scattered the ground, drill bits and saws and screwdrivers. We ignored all of it. All that mattered was the yellow dream.
Josh took the tricycle to the top of the almost-hill. I watched. I don’t remember any words. I don’t think either of us knew any. He came rushing down, and I’m sure he was grinning and giggling. Filling the world with joy. Unadulterated, uncontrollable, unimaginable fun. It was now my turn. Except … Josh didn’t agree.
At this point, we started to argue. I’m sure neither of us knew any words, but I imagine that, if we had, our argument would have gone something like: ‘Give seat!’ ‘No!’
‘My go.’
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