Where I’m from, a sandbox defined your economic status.
And non of the children cared.
A tractor tire laying flat on leveled turf under a young maple tree. The tree is older than me, so it’s enormous. Being seven most everything is enormous. My sisters are younger and smaller. Kimmy the littlest, stands next to Cindy the middlest, watching dad fill the tractor tire with new brown sand. I’m helping him. The sand is cold. It feels almost wet, but not. I fill my yellow shovel from the pile to pour it over the edge of the tire. Dad uses his shovel to do the same. His shovel is enormous.
We shovel. Dad levels the sand in the middle of the tractor tire. We shovel some more. Cindy and Kimmy get bored and go back into the house. I hear their stomping running feet go up the four wooden steps of the back covered porch, the screen door slams. They aren’t supposed to do any of that.
“Girls! Stop slamming doors!” Mom is in the kitchen looking out the window. She sees all.
Spring air rushes around everything I see. Maple tree leaves rustle and shimmer. I shovel. Robins in the maple tree hop to the very top. They want to watch, but they don’t want to get caught I guess. The pile of sand is growing inside the tractor tire. The pile outside is small now and dad skims it up. I skim with my shovel like him.
