The Letter

When I was 12, a folded up piece of paper was handed to me. I was standing in the middle of the tired, sun scorched school playground.

It was a sweltering summer’s day and everyone was seeking refuge under any spots of shade they could find.

The only activity going on at one end of the yard was a game of handball beside the old sports shed.

Children were taking every chance they could, to lazily sit or lay on the shaded, cold concrete squares every time the ball went over the fence, waiting while begrudgingly someone would finally give in and sigh, hunching their shoulders to go retreive it.

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Emma BrookerComment