The Quiet Race

Waves of sunlight reflect on our skin, —or off our sweat— the second layer, like a steamed onion. You grin at me slightly, hot from play, cheeks ruddy as red balloons, and I laugh, because you look close to bursting. You can smile, because I know my face is redder. Elbow to elbow we connect, our foreheads bending downwards —dandelions— ponytails swaying, with our chuckles. My limbs are blistered, sore from lack of use. But I know you feel fine. Your brown skin, russet potatoes, are strong and tempered beside my white and slippery spaghetti. I should not laugh. For who would win in a battle of potatoes and spaghetti? What, I sometimes wonder, would we do if we were the same, two cuttings from one mold, same clay? Perhaps, I think, we’d be arm to arm shoulder to shoulder like a good puzzle, our hair flowing freely backs doubled as we laughed. And a light fog would soften the sun, no longer heat, but warmth.