Summer is Almost Here

By Peter Bowden


He had ten crumpled dollars in his back pocket and dreams too big for his sneakers. The old ones were flapping at the soles, worn thin from last summer's mischief—tree climbing, fence hopping, running full tilt from imaginary bandits. He walked the cracked sidewalk to the hardware store downtown, where they kept the PF Flyers in a glass case behind the counter, next to the baseball gloves and pocketknives.

The man behind the counter—smelled like pipe smoke and motor oil—slid the box toward the boy like it was something sacred. Black canvas, white rubber toe, red stripe—a pair of shoes that promised speed, flight, freedom. The boy unlaced them with reverence, slipped them on, and felt taller. Faster. Braver. Like summer itself had come early and settled into his feet.

Outside, the world stretched wide and full of daring. The sidewalk shimmered in the heat, the trees bent low with secrets, and the boy—new shoes squeaking with each step—ran. Not toward anything. Just because he could. Because when you're ten, and it's June, and the world is waiting, a pair of PF Flyers is all you need to fly.

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