I could draw the back of the driver's head from memory because i had been staring at it for so long.
He had a big head, but it was perfectly oval. It complemented the trendy low punk haircut heused to sport.
The last trip we made to the village was loud and filled with chatter.
My most distinct memory of the trip was zooming past some infinitesimal palm trees in our little buwick
and mother was saying to us “ palm trees grew as high as the planters knowledge ”.
Once we got to my grandmother's house in the village i planted my very own palm tree, and every night after studying or reading one of the local newspaper to my grandfather,
i would run to my planting spot and check earnestly for any growth with my wooden ruler carefully tucked between my legs, ready to measure at the slightest inch. I never told anyone about the palm trees,
lest they thought i wasn't smart enough to grow one.
In the village, if you were a kid you were everybody’s child.
you were welcomed inside anybody’s house, and the grown ups, fed,
spoiled and disciplined you as though you were one of their own. The village was more of a large
compound to me than it was ever a geographical area. This was my third trip to kokiri, and my childhood friends had began trading in their catapults for musical instruments.
Rather than killing animals they were now interested in admiring girls. I still wasn't quite convinced that girls were anything special. This was 1989 and your manhood was very
much proportional to the amount of pushups you could do.