My first romance involved marbles. I suppose I was seven. He was a boy about my age, part of a street gang in a far away country. Our connection was marbles, a game that I watched from afar because it fascinated me but I hung back because I didn’t know the rules.
One day, this boy came around with a bag of marbles. His mission was to teach me the game. It was only ever just the two of us, sneaking around like the outsiders that we were, finding the perfect place: the dirt of the school yard baseball field in summer.
Then came the day that he told me he was leaving. He didn’t want to go, but he had no choice. None of us did. He reached into his shirt and drew out the leather bag that he always carried around his neck. It contained three small bright shining marbles: the awesome steelies that few of us had ever seen in play. He placed the bag in my hands. I pledge my heart to you, he said. And then he turned and walked away.
Later that afternoon, the doorbell rang. It was HIM. My hero. My heart leapt at the sight of him. He was staying! But no. He had come to take back the marbles. His mother had sent him. It turned out that they were the family marbles. He was very sorry, but ….
I still love marbles, though.
This is Day Four of WordPress University Discovering Your Eye