BRENNA HOLLAND
Summer of ‘97 “Tell me that story again.” “I tell you lots of different stories.” “Addie! You know which one! The one about your neighbor, the old lady.” Eamon asked for the blue grass story every day. I picked a wedgie caused by my pinstriped swimsuit. I soon settled my scabbed chin into my two hands, an injury that occurred at my ninth birthday party just last week. A piñata can sometimes be a girl’s worst nightmare. “Well, her lawn during the summer always turned brown and she hated that color. She wanted green grass year round and figured she could dye it herself.” “She decided to do it herself? Wasn’t she like a hundred?” “Something like that. Anyway, she dyed her lawn blue! But she was so old she couldn’t tell the difference. She thought it was green. She was so proud of her bright blue grass that she sunbathed in a pineapple patterned two piece for weeks!” “That’s so embarrassing!” Eamon threw his head back and cackled. I counted the four silver molars already invading his smile. Although I would never admit it, Eamon was my favorite. He was always my favorite. Most of the Shepard cousins were older and preoccupied. Jimmy wore glasses and read Keats on the beach. Greg preferred strong drinks, sailing, and taking girls to the stables. Pete and Liam were too young to cause anything but mischief and destruction. Eamon and I soaked in the silence after his laughter and watched the waves lick the shore. “When are you going to learn to swim, big guy?” I asked. “My dad’s been teaching me, but I don’t think I can float.” “Sure you can, you just got to relax.” “Funny. When I relax, I sink.”
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