We didn’t watch the clock.We watched the sky get darker.Streetlights coming on meant the game was getting serious.Shoes scuffed the pavement.Laughter echoed down the block.Someone always hid behind the same tree.Someone always kicked the can too hard.Someone always tripped and laughed instead of crying.Parents didn’t track us on phones.They whistled.They yelled our names into the night air.You knew that sound.It meant one last run.One last hide.Then home.Dirty knees.Warm kitchens.We were tired.We were happy.We were free.
In Album: Judy Gilford's Timeline Photos
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Marc Cabrera
No whistles was required for us, except the Ferros. Jesus's dad would blast a lip whistle that could be heard for miles, for the rest of us, once the street lights came on...we was gone...'buenas noches, mis amigitos'...
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