Toy Soldiers
My first friend in the United States is my next-door neighbor, Kyle. We’re both eight, but we go to different schools. “What’s your name?” he asks from across the wooden fence that divides his back yard from the small patch of cement next to the house my parents rent. He must think I’m strange when I blankly stare at him in silence. I can’t help staring, I’ve never seen eyes the color of the ocean. It’s not long before we start playing together. Between the two of us, spoken language becomes unnecessary, even obsolete.
One afternoon, while playing with his plastic toy soldiers, Kyle invites me to his house. I see it in his eyes, and the nudge with his head confirms it. I follow him home. Stepping into his house feels like stepping into a different dimension, everything is so shiny. The vast space between the neatly arranged furniture is soothing; unlike the one-bedroom house my family shares with two other families. Kyle is thirsty. I follow him as he makes his way to the kitchen. I feel time stop, I’m mesmerized when Kyle opens the refrigerator door. I’ve never seen so much food. Kyle stands in front of the refrigerator contemplating his options; apple juice, orange juice, fruit punch, milk, perhaps a yogurt, or maybe some ice cream. He takes two juice pouches and hands me one. He then grabs two chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar and offers one to me. I feel like the luckiest kid in the world. I can’t believe that Kyle lives like this every day; his parents must earn a lot of money. I want to earn a lot of money too, some day, and have a refrigerator filled with food.
Kyle and I are like Tom and Jerry, except that we don’t fight. We play together everyday after school, until our parents call for us to come inside just as the sun begins to set. One day, my family moved away. I felt like a toy soldier who’d been shot through the heart. As we drove away with our few belongings, I sat in the back seat of the car gazing out the window. I memorized every street, every tree, and every turn, planning how I would walk my way back to Kyle. I still remember the route; I’m still trying to walk my way back to him.
One afternoon, while playing with his plastic toy soldiers, Kyle invites me to his house. I see it in his eyes, and the nudge with his head confirms it. I follow him home. Stepping into his house feels like stepping into a different dimension, everything is so shiny. The vast space between the neatly arranged furniture is soothing; unlike the one-bedroom house my family shares with two other families. Kyle is thirsty. I follow him as he makes his way to the kitchen. I feel time stop, I’m mesmerized when Kyle opens the refrigerator door. I’ve never seen so much food. Kyle stands in front of the refrigerator contemplating his options; apple juice, orange juice, fruit punch, milk, perhaps a yogurt, or maybe some ice cream. He takes two juice pouches and hands me one. He then grabs two chocolate chip cookies from the cookie jar and offers one to me. I feel like the luckiest kid in the world. I can’t believe that Kyle lives like this every day; his parents must earn a lot of money. I want to earn a lot of money too, some day, and have a refrigerator filled with food.
Kyle and I are like Tom and Jerry, except that we don’t fight. We play together everyday after school, until our parents call for us to come inside just as the sun begins to set. One day, my family moved away. I felt like a toy soldier who’d been shot through the heart. As we drove away with our few belongings, I sat in the back seat of the car gazing out the window. I memorized every street, every tree, and every turn, planning how I would walk my way back to Kyle. I still remember the route; I’m still trying to walk my way back to him.
