I don’t know why I remember my seventeenth birthday. Not my eighteenth, not my twenty first, but my seventeenth. When I woke up that morning, I found a letter from my brother. My brother always writes beautiful letters. This one was about coming of age, being young and innocent. How I should value this age, embrace it and be aware of it. As it will pass.
I felt strong that day, I felt like the world was waiting to be conquered. My brother’s letter gave me the consciousness that you don’t always have when you turn seventeen.
My friends and I went to the park in the afternoon to celebrate. We got some booze, some cigarettes and my brother. It was the first time my brother would come with us. He is five years older, which made him a kind of God among us, the seventeen-or-so year old.
The park was in full bloom, the sun was out and the air smelled of wisteria. The park had a swing, one of those made out of wood that can hold two or three people. I got into that swing and the boy I liked came and sat next to me. My brother was talking to the others, I could hear the laughter.
We shared the booze, smoked cigarettes, talked, laughed, and stole glances from love interests. The warmth of spring, and more probably of booze, reflected into our red cheeks, and shone through our eyes.
The longing light of innocence.
Written for the Writing Challenge – Flash Fiction