Long-haired Children

Every afternoon, I find myself drawn from my storybooks by the exuberant cries of the long-haired child across the street. Every day, the child plays the same games, wind whipping their hair into their face, forcing them to spit it out between laps of the turf yard, stray strands only temporarily muffling their joyful screams. The noise is sometimes overwhelming, to the point that I consider walking out to confront the child myself, finally putting a face to the inarticulate yells that haunt my afternoon. But my hair chokes the words before they can escape from my mouth, and instead I listen to the child call out for the both of us.

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