“Cut what?” “I mean, I’d have been in trouble.” He chuckled again and we looked out at the road.
“Yellow dust rose up everywhere that the car went. But I was mulling something over.”
“Portuga, you weren’t lying, were you?” “About what, squirt?”
“Well, I’ve never heard anyone say: ‘He was kicked in the posterior.’ Have you?”
He laughed again. “You’re really something. I’ve never heard it either.”
“But OK, forget ‘posterior’ and say ‘behind’ instead. But let’s change the subject or soon I won’t know what to say to you.”
“Watch the landscape. You’re going to see more and more big trees. We’re getting closer to the river.”
He turned right and took a shortcut. The car went on and on and then stopped right in an empty field.
There was just one big tree with enormous roots. I clapped my hands with glee.
“How beautiful! What a beautiful place! The next time I see Buck Jones,”
I’m going to tell him that his prairies and plains don’t hold a candle to our place.
He stroked my head.This is how I want to see you always. Living out good dreams, not with a head full of crazy ideas.
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