Word as Story

That little girl wore a blue, pueblo dress and her thick black hair was pulled into a pony tail with an ordinary rubber band. She sat on the stoop next to our house, watching the white trucks and red cars pass by.

Some days the kids play marbles in front of her house. No, only the boys play together there. They get mean sometimes if a shooter gets flicked too far. The small boy usually has to chase it. They push and shove and call each other names, then return to their contest. Where they’re playing is just right across the road – only 20 steps or so. Maybe she wants to go play with them.

Her mother is on the roof, banging the dust and dirt out of a red and blue persian rug as large as a room using a straw broom. The carpet is draped over the side of the two-story concrete house like a banner proclaiming that the cold winter is over. Carpets are taken up during summer so feet touch the cool, marble floor rather than the warm, soft carpet. It will be so hot soon that the little girl and her family will sleep during the afternoon, trying to take refuge from the heat until evening provides shade enough to finish the chores.

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