“Just wait a second. I’ll think of something for us to play.”
Presently, the fairy of innocence flew past on a white cloud that ruffled the leaves on the trees, the grasses in the ditch and Pinkie’s leaves.
A smile lit up my battered face. “Was that you, Pinkie?”
“I didn’t do anything.” “Oh, goody, then it’s the windy season coming.”
On our street there were all kinds of seasons. The marble season. The spinning top season. The season to collect movie-star trading cards.
The kite season was the most beautiful of them all. The skies would fill with kites of every colour.
Beautiful kites of every shape and size. It was war in the air. Headlong collisions, battles, lassoing and line cutting.
Razors would cut strings and kites would go wheeling through space, out of kilter, tangling bridles and tails; it was all beautiful.
The world belonged to the kids in the street. In all the streets of Bangu.
Then there’d be kite skeletons tangled in the electric wires, and we’d all run away from the power company truck.
The men would come and angrily pull down the dead kites. The wind... the wind... With the wind came the idea.
“Let’s play hunting, Luís.” “I can’t ride the horse.”
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