It was a storm, far as storms go. The children only wanted to go bowling. That is, they had been forced to bowl, last day of school as it was. But being forced to do something isn't bad at all when you like it. When you've got the bumpers.
The siren howled, somewhere between the sixth and seventh frame. The kids all looks around, looked at each other. They'd heard the sound before, sure. Driving around, at their schools, they'd heard the sound, tornadoes were not new. But not on the last day of school. Surely not on the arrival of official summer.
They left their balls and lined the walls, the pins were abandoned in odd braille-like designs. They sat on the floor, hands around their knees, heads between them. The sirens blared. What a way to end the first grade.
Math and naps, coloring and building blocks. Reading and pictures and bathroom breaks. Recess, lunch, and the school supply cart before returning to class. Kickball, kickball, kickball. Snowshoe, jungle gym, running and cursive. I'll be your friend.
The sirens ended. The kids were free to pick up their balls. They were free to finish their games, to use the bumpers, to take the school bus home. To have a summer of beaches, of bike rides, of ice cream til it hurt.
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