Andrea Losa

Capture the Flag 

Okay—Joey would say—
we’ve got to find two flags, one for each side,
and yeah socks will do—clean ones.

So he would grab a pair of his dad’s, fresh out
of the machine, in the laundry room where
some days, too, we would hide and play.
I remember them—the tips were gray.

The adults-- awake talking, drinking
coffee or beer,
kept the light on,
and said it was okay to go out—
the New Braunfels summer nights
were cooler
and the best time of day—and play.
No cars were coming; they’d known all the neighbors like family,
but still—stay out of the street.

Okay, let’s pick teams.
Jeffrey and Joey would automatically convene—
guys vs. girls—it was the way we would learn to play—seldom fair.
And that always left me, Vanessa, and Valerie,
who was still only six or seven and too little to be
a factor.

And Ness would have her head in the clouds, searching the sky,
never competitive enough, when we would hang the socks up
and go to war.

Ours hung from Joey’s front porch, and theirs hung from his grandma’s
next store, where the porch light burned.

I was indignant at inequities, already thirsting for equality, as my sister sang and danced, and Valerie went inside to call her mom, I went to my other cousin’s room, spied the guys
through the backdoor by Crissy’s dresser, trying to make the steal, heard them tear out the other way, back to their camp, went outside
 and let them call me on my cheat.

Good. Game over. I don’t care.
Five minutes standing around in the dark--
Yeah, okay, let’s play again. All is forgiven.

I hated them at the moment. But I loved them everyday since that July midnight
on the dead-end road, in the country quiet that I can’t hear anywhere else, soft shadows on the whitewalls, crunching leaves, and laughter —I don’t know who won—probably the guys—or all of us--
summer nights were long and
we could’ve played forever,
if only we held out a little longer before
we were in the house, quiet at night,
drinking coffee and beer,
and dealing with life,

becoming, everyday, unrecognizable to our past.