…the pedal of my push-bike underfoot, racing with my friends toward the outer-edge of hill-top suburbia, into the back-forests of Kalamunda.
…the crunch and slip of red pebbles under the tyres, the menthol air, the perfect cool-shade over thin tracks.
… to ride the half-wild ponies from abandoned lots, cantering them bareback over lush grasses, their unshod hooves kicking up the peaty-scented clay.
… singing Dolly Parton’s ‘Here you come again’ into the wind, interspersed with conversations about the books we were reading, The Adventurous Four or Fantastic Five.
… We left when we became hungry, arriving at Helen’s home famished. Her mother always had homemade cookies on hand. Out to the garden, past her pottery wheel and assortment of clay projects, and into the veggie patch with nets to capture white winged moths in jars.
… I always paused at the bath-tub fishpond, searching for my goldfish—rescued from the linoleum, at my place, when step-father had thrown the tank against a wall. Probably, dinner was late.
…Once spotted, I would look over at my house. He wouldn’t be there (see, it was a happy memory). But, my brothers would be playing with Tonka trucks on the perfectly edged embankment. Memory ended, I’d stay in my friend’s garden until we were ready to ride into the forest again; a place of great adventure…