Lalo's book rested under his head. His hands crossed corpse-like on his chest across his waistcoat. He dreamed he was chasing a gray yearling who had just bucked him off. Just feet away, he could not quite grasp the reins. Lalo dreamt some version of this chase regularly. No amount of introspection could banish it from his sleep. On this particular sunny afternoon, Lalo felt as if he was pushed off the horse.
The trouble with A.G., my little brother, is flypaper. Well, that's my trouble I guess. I am to flypaper, as he is to - well- you get my drift, Dear Pen Pal.
Momma says it is impolite to call people names. I'm not sure I would call an analogy name-callin'. And, besides, I didn't call him "flypaper" to his face. He probably doesn't even know what that is, bein' only five and all.
Uncle Short was anything but. He stretched from here to there. His shadow went clear down the drive and across the drainage ditch. I sometimes thought it frightened the cows. They created such a racket when he came out of the barn. I'd hear it right clear through the Cheerios I'd be eatin' after chores.
