When were children, we ran half-naked
through July and August sprinklers
where the tough Bermuda grass
always needed mowing. We spurned
shady places and lay instead with girls
getting baby lotion tans. As my flesh
cooked, I would close my eyes, fireworks
beneath their lids—my imagination ran
to places I knew nothing about—
just disconnected flashes of flames
within the black. No one seemed
to mind the heat in those days.
drycrikjournal 
WOW! How do you even get to those memories that I had years ago stored away in a place I never thought would be revisited?
They have since turned to pre-cancerous keratomas, but the Bermuda grass still grows without water. Drought nor dynamite will kill it.
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I remember those days and the heat and as the seasons changed and the years changed and my sister married a doctor and we were all told to keep out of the sun. Still, when you get to 72 without skin cancer you can go back out without fear. And you can drink whisky (with an ‘e’ or without) and eat white toast.
I’m glad you reminded me.
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