My skin is pale again and thin like I can see a soft blue vein in my leg and again in the other. I roll my thumb over a scar on my knee when I fell on the pavement because I wasn’t looking straight. There is another on my lower back where I was burned by a hot light in the well-lit basement of the school where ghosts toil around taking photographic pictures. It’s the scar I hate the most. A small line above it marks where I fell from a tree 15 feet in the forest behind the baseball fields where our brothers played. Those were the summers we ate pixisticks and wrote our names on the sidewalks. My favorite game was called “Watch Me, I Can Do Dangerous Things.”  I’d climb everything and dive in deep waters and perform stunts because I wasn’t afraid of anything. Mother called me a daredevil. Those were my good memories. But those were my summers I was forced to burn under a white sun and perform a century of waiting on the dirty microwave bleachers of agony. This went on for years and it made me grow tired of baseball and the children who couldn’t play at all. Those were the days of dance and playing street hockey with the neighbors. Trying to break world records and of running, because I could run so fast and the speed made me feel alive. Those were the summers of endless boredom and exploring backyard forestry and of tennis in the driveway. We kicked around soccer balls in the abandoned courtyard and coined it our cement home. And I fought the universe in my summer house. And I have the scars that say so.