Hands and Feet

He had little hands, but that was okay. Because he had little feet. It was okay that he had little hands and feet because he was little, and it was okay that he was little. Because he was supposed to be little. Because he was five.

He was average for five year old. And when people called him little, he would let them know that he wasn't. And that he was average for a five year old. He knew, because his mom had told him he was. She wouldn't lie to him.

She wasn't lying.

He liked to play outside. He like playing tag, or ball tag, or frozen tag, or hide and seek tag, or crouching tag, or kick the can, or water guns, or sprinklers, or fake guns, or nerf guns. He like to play all these things outside. Or inside in winter, if he could. Water guns he only got away with once. Worth it.

He only had one friend to play with though, and that was okay. His friend was Don. Don was a good friend. They would play anything together. They were best friends.

They had so many toys, but it was like there parents knew what they each had, so never got them the same toy.

They did know what each had. And they never got them the same toy.

He would go over to Don's house, or Don to his. Or they would play in the park, because there was a park between their houses, so they would play there. Sometimes he would be late coming home from Don's because he would be having so much fun, he would lose track of time. That was okay though, because his parents always knew where he was. Because he only had one friend.

They would play and play. And it didn't matter that his hands and feet were little. Because Don's were too.

And they were happy.