We sat on little plastic chairs by the street leading up to our house. We had no neighbours because we lived on a hill, surrounded by forests and meadows and roads leading to places where people with neighbours lived. We lived in a flat in a primary school, and the playground was empty because it was the summer break and no one was there. There are few creepier and lonelier places than an empty primary school at the start of summer, when the memory of the feet is still fresh on the tiled staircases. We sat on little plastic chairs by the road and my sister had short, thick blonde hair. It was gathered at the top of her head to form a ponytail, a palm-tree fountain ponytail. She had a patch on her thick-lensed glasses, but she didn‘t look like a pirate. The patch was cut from sticky craft paper and it had umbrellas on it. Her cheeks were soft and I don‘t remember what we talked about, but I remember that she sat on the pink one of the little plastic chairs, and I was stuck with the white one. We had four white chairs and one pink one, and she sat on it. We were wearing matching dresses. I know this from the videos. We wore matching dresses and it was her birthday. We sat by the street leading up to our house because we were expecting the guests to arrive soon. All my cousins were blonde, and I guess I‘ve never thought about that fact before. It‘s not exactly true, because V. has red hair and S.‘s is dark like mine, but all the rest of them have sandy blonde to white blonde hair. Thick and curly and wispy and straight. We sat on the chairs and waited, and I was probably teasing her because I always did that, because I was awful as a child, but I think maybe all of us are at some point. The air was thick with summer and the continuous hum of insects, and everything was a lot bigger then, trees, grass, streets, gravel stones, plastic chairs, cars. I remember the letter I sent to the farmer who owned the land around our house. I wrote it on my dad‘s computer, I must have been about eight, is that too early to be able to write? I wrote Dear farmer, I wrote, dear farmer, I hope you will reconsider your plans about the apple tree. It is my favourite tree to climb in, I wrote, with my little hands, and I would like for it to not be cut down. Christina, I signed it. Much later I learned that he was offended about the fact that I hadn‘t just run down to the house to tell him my request in person. The tree was cut down, and I think I distinctly remember crying very hard and very long for the loss of that tree. But I had my own tree by that point, long-suffering and bendy. It was a larch. I had to look that up. It was a larch and it was in front of our house, and I claimed it, so it was mine. I climbed it a lot of times, but I never got very high because it was a skinny tree and I was a sensible child, and too heavy for the thin branches to support my weight. My sister and I played by the larch a lot, and we dug for dirt to push into shapes and serve to our mother by the bench, and she would make clicking sounds with her tongue and say that it tasted delicious. And we‘d sing, pretty loudly, and sometimes my dad would take us for a spin in the wheelbarrow, and my sister and I would just hold on to each other and scream our high-pitched screams, and we‘d hold on to each other and forget that we were supposed to pull each other‘s hair and fight over the pink chair, and just enjoy the ride.
I am doing this thing called Write, Comment, Subscribe. It's lots of fun. The prompt for this week's story thing was 'Write a childhood story'. I tired to write one, but a memory came out by accident. Sorry about that.