Growing Up by Marjon van Bruggen Through the eyes of a child writing prompt entry |
My son turns seven his guests arrive. They gather in the living room. Short men. Men in first grade with smooth jaws and chins. Hands in pockets, they jostle and jockey for a place. "How old are you? Six. I'm seven". They eye each other seeing themselves tiny in the other's pupils. The sound of clearing throats, a room of small bankers. They fold their arms and frown: "I could beat you up" a seven to a six. My son, freckles like specks of nutmeg, long hands, cool and thin as the day they guided him out of me, speaks up as a host for the sake of the group: "We could easily kill a two-year-old" he proclaims in a clear voice. The other men agree they clear their throats again like Generals; then relax and get down to playing war, celebrating my son's life with huge amounts of lemonade.
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Marjon van Bruggen
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