Seasoned Innocence

Photo from Urban Review

From my study in our apartment, I hear many things. Usually it's the sound of planes flying overhead, or cars rushing down Imperial Highway. I can hear the laundry turning in the machines, or the ice cream truck blasting down the block.

During the World Cup, when Mexico scored against Arengtina in the first few minutes, I heard roars and yelps from across our complex in surround sound.

But there is another kind of sound I hear - the sound of children playing. They holler, squeal, and screech up and down the alley. They have found their playground in the narrow spaces between our buildings. I hear them kicking the gravel, dropping sticks, and clanking toys.

I have learned to move their voices into a foggy background while I'm working, but this morning, as I sat blinking at my computer screen, one boy's voice rose from the blur and cut through my concentration.

"Are you going to smoke when we grow up?"