LITTLE THINGS

The treasure you find by not trying.

Dreamers dream. That's what I tell myself, especially when I don't.

Builders build. That's what I tell myself, especially when I don't.

Writers write. That's what I tell myself, especially when I don't.

When I am not doing, I am doing something, though.

For instance, I talked to the ebullient neighbor kid as he was playing in his driveway. He was holding a pair of crutches out straight, one in each hand, and he told me they were thermal cannons, like interstellar soldiers used in space battles. Yes, he said interstellar. Phew, phew, phew. His ruddy cheeks inflate and empty. I’m blasting aliens, David Jones. He always calls me by my first and last name when we chat.

That’s terrific. Hey, what are you going to be for Halloween? The stone-faced sun is sinking, and I am bundled head-to-toe, and he is wearing a yellow t-shirt and shorts, and the skittering leaves scratch the asphalt as the wind kicks up. One of us doesn't put much stock in the Weather Channel.

He said he would be a pirate, but he did not have a mustache, but he did have a sword and a hat but not a parrot. He told me he went to the ocean last year and spit in it, and he found five seashells, and he said he would show them to me sometime. But his brother lost two of them, so I might only be able to see three. His younger brother is constantly losing things, apparently, like his shoes. He said he also saw a dead seagull, and it was gross. They ate ice cream, too. He likes sand.

Then he said, I gotta go eat dinner, David Jones. See you later.

And I said, not if I see you first.

He shrugged his shoulders and closed the front door to his house behind him, the thermal cannons pulsing red-hot in the grass.

I stood on the sidewalk for a minute, craving ice cream and wishing I were an interstellar soldier.

Then I marched home and closed the door to my house behind me.