The late afternoon sun illuminated the red-striped mountains that gated off the small town from the endless Utah desert. The heat was slightly masked by the shifting shade. Sandy air sat in the doorways of houses, schools, and stables. This was the hour when people started strolling about the town.
Roscoe liked walking alone at this time. He would look along the edges of the road, where the crunched-down pebbles mixed with the fine red dust of the patchy countryside. On lucky days, Roscoe would find a treasure, pick it up, dust it off with his green sweatshirt that said “Don’t rock the boat!” in large yellow letters, and stash the item in his khakis.
Sometimes Roscoe wasn’t allowed to go exploring. This was usually because his parents, Connie and Preston, thought it was too dark, or because there had been another spotting of a coyote. He was never to wear shorts while exploring because one time a piece of rusty wire had slashed through his young, gentle skin, and they had needed to drive nearly eighty miles to the nearest hospital. It turned out everything was all right, and his parents were very relieved.
Some third graders were embarrassed that their whole family ate together every night, but Connie and Preston told Roscoe that they loved having every meal with him, and it didn’t matter that it was just the four of them — Connie, Preston, Roscoe, and their pig, Cecily — because it made the time they all spent together even more special. They cherished each and every moment they had with him.
Roscoe’s favorite kind of exploring was when he would walk past the sparse chunks of tall grass and up the broken slopes of the mountains, not stopping until he got to the point where he could see the ironed-out desert beneath him. Standing far above the cloud of dust stirred up by the movements of the miniature people below, he could see colors evoking dandelion and corn, cider and yam, apple and currant.
This was Roscoe’s haven: the place he understood. He knew that his parents and Cecily loved him, and he loved them immensely, but this was his place to be free, to let that endless world envelop him so he could know what it means to be living.
Roscoe liked walking alone at this time. He would look along the edges of the road, where the crunched-down pebbles mixed with the fine red dust of the patchy countryside. On lucky days, Roscoe would find a treasure, pick it up, dust it off with his green sweatshirt that said “Don’t rock the boat!” in large yellow letters, and stash the item in his khakis.
Sometimes Roscoe wasn’t allowed to go exploring. This was usually because his parents, Connie and Preston, thought it was too dark, or because there had been another spotting of a coyote. He was never to wear shorts while exploring because one time a piece of rusty wire had slashed through his young, gentle skin, and they had needed to drive nearly eighty miles to the nearest hospital. It turned out everything was all right, and his parents were very relieved.
Some third graders were embarrassed that their whole family ate together every night, but Connie and Preston told Roscoe that they loved having every meal with him, and it didn’t matter that it was just the four of them — Connie, Preston, Roscoe, and their pig, Cecily — because it made the time they all spent together even more special. They cherished each and every moment they had with him.
Roscoe’s favorite kind of exploring was when he would walk past the sparse chunks of tall grass and up the broken slopes of the mountains, not stopping until he got to the point where he could see the ironed-out desert beneath him. Standing far above the cloud of dust stirred up by the movements of the miniature people below, he could see colors evoking dandelion and corn, cider and yam, apple and currant.
This was Roscoe’s haven: the place he understood. He knew that his parents and Cecily loved him, and he loved them immensely, but this was his place to be free, to let that endless world envelop him so he could know what it means to be living.