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I killed my grandfather when I was in second grade.
I am more powerful than I knew.
I killed my grandfather when I was in second grade.
All my life, I’ve heard the phrase, “Words have power; that’s why it’s called SPELL-ing,” and been admonished to be careful about the things I say because once spoken, they can never be unsaid.
These are both true. And when you kill someone with your words, they don’t magically come back to life.
When you’re a kid, summers are enchanting. There is no one forcing you to stumble out of your warm and cozy sleep-tousled sheets into chilly air at 6:30 am. There is no hurried bowl of cereal and “Careful, you’re sloshing milk over the sides” and, “Let’s go; get your shoes on. The lights! Don’t forget to turn off your bedroom light!” before a mad dash to the bus stop to take the gasoline-scented journey to school.
Summer means sleeping in until the warm light filtering through the curtains, and a grumbling tummy, rouses you. It’s endless hours of dappled sunlight and blue skies and leafy green trees waving in the wind. It’s riding bikes or playing “Kick the Can” with the neighborhood kids, only returning home for food or when dusk descends. It’s skinned knees and Fourth of July S’mores (double the toasted marshmallows, please!) and coconut sunscreen and…
