I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Lydia Peelle lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her fiction appears in The O. Henry Prize Stories 2006 (Anchor) and is included in the forthcoming Best New American Voices 2007 (Harvest Books).
We tore across the back field, our heels digging into their sides. We pulled them up short and did somersaults off their backs, or handstands in the saddle. We turned on a dime. We jumped the coop, the wall, the ditch. We were fearless. It was the summer we smoked our first cigarettes, the summer you broke your arm. It was the last summer, the last one, before boys.