Skippin' Rock Blues

In childhood, my near age cousin well, he stuttered, same's the sprinkler in Grandpa’s garden. Times my insides stirred and shuddered, yet tch-tch-tch-tch-ch-ch-ch-ch garnered in this buddin’ gut a calm percussion; We two unique, us ragamuffins, only in communion contra-crust of family cliques, drifting in to tough'ning up; I hated my red mane, he hated talkin. With cocked head, I said, “Your twitched tongue is awesome, like skipping rocks at the lake." An affected glance, brief mutual look, my red face matching pate, awaited his lips to skip. "Y-y-y-y-your hair’s l-li-li-l-l-l-li-l-like c-c-copper," he smiled, like a rising penny sun. He stood somewhat taller then threw one last stone into his Pa-pa's ample pond. Thought we'd marry, told’m so, he was two years older, I, in third grade, had high hopes. “L-l-l-laws against it,” he explained. Broke my heart; two of us forever changed.