Mom had a bruise under her eye but she laughed anyway. Dad drank yellow-colored drinks with ice cubes. They sat down with the rest of the family in the yard next to the driveway. In plastic chairs and platform shoes. The green grass looked brittle underneath their feet. The tinkling crash of ice cubes against teeth was louder than laughter.

I wanted to play hopscotch. I sat cross-legged on the hot driveway and whispered it over the sounds of frozen cubes and talk. I did not want to speak loudly. I watched my words fly into the forgotten place where whispers go. Over their heads. Into the clouds. I thought maybe they’d turn to rain.

Auntie Di got up from Ned's lap even though he was not pleased to see her go. He slapped her on the bottom. Whack. Once. She flinched and shared a look with Mom. But she winked at me as if it did not matter and walked inside the small yellow house and returned with a thick, chipped piece of pink chalk.

The torn tarmac was bumpy and black, like the earth had kicked it from the inside out. She bent over as if tending a garden and sketched one square, two squares, three until she drew a tower. A Hopscotch Fortress. Unwavering. Certain.

Her hand shone white and strong looking in the sun. I stood beside her and watched her glossy red, long fingernails glow near the shadows in between her knuckles. The shaded hollows were soft and purple. Like secrets. Like bruises that did not heal. But she laughed anyway.

I had nothing to throw so she gave me a set of keys. They rested heavy and jingle jangly in my small hands.

I had nobody to play with so she took off her shoes and knotted her socks into a ball. Her feet were whiter than her hands. Spongy and square. Like two pillows resting on a freshly made bed. She threw her sock ball. I threw the keys.

We hopped.

The sun descended like a feather into the black tarmac. The pink chalk began to fade. Her white hands and feet were four afterglows of dim and peaceful light.

Uncle Ned was not happy to see her hop. He said, ‘Enough playing.’ She threw the ball and bouncy-stepped to pick it up. Uncle Ned stood up and said, ‘Come here. Now.’ She stared at him for a long instant and said, ‘Later.’

I looked at Mom. The bruise underneath her eye moved like a slow wave. I remembered the time I almost drowned in the swimming pool. Auntie Di noticed and smoothed the hair away from my face and said, ‘Let’s play one more time.’

Uncle Ned was not happy. But she laughed anyway.

And so did I.