top of page
  • Writer's picturecatherine@allaboutwriters

Rocket Boy

It's almost inaudible to human ears, that voice. Such a pitch, such volume, so consistently blaring, like a siren. A fitting warning, really. For soon, the door belts open and a tornado of a boy, blurred in tones of blue and brown, careens through the room at pace. Those around defend themselves from the gust that follows, blowing hair and clothes aside, causing some to stumble. Conversation is stopped until the deafening force at the eye of the twister passes through. "Hey Davey!", someone calls after him.

When it's time to eat, he reappears from the garden, pushing his glasses up his nose by contorting his face into a scowl, kind of squinting, the lip forcing the cheek upwards, pushing the frames alongside his nose, ending with a wink. It's obvious he uses his hands for this task sometimes, though, as the smudgy fingerprints covering the lenses leads one to question if they are a help or a hindrance to being able to see. The bright blue frames match his eyes, so magnified behind the weighty lenses. A bandaid holds them together on the side. Knowing most last about a month, I'm guessing these are at about the two-week mark.

With hair sticking up in tufts all over, his shirt untucked and hand-me-down shorts askew, it's clear he's been in the garden with the cousins. Here, all games are played at full speed, 110%, regardless of what it is or who gets in the way. An impressive collection of bruises step up his shins to the scab-covered knees, picked around the edges, with the shadow of the sticky part of a bandaid now covered in dirt. His eyes scan the table as he approaches, hands ready to get to work. Eating is much like playing for him; no retreat, no surrender. With multiple calls to use utensils (some dishes now off the menu in the minds of the onlooking adults), the gusto with which he eats makes it impossible to watch, while you also can't look away. "One hand at a time!", calls his mother, much to the joy of the surrounding uncles and aunts.

When the time comes to leave, I call out for a hug and immediately have second thoughts. He's such a character, the desire to wrangle and kiss him is almost outweighed by the desire to not have to touch his sticky self. And that suits him just fine, he's way too quick to catch anyways.

Recent Posts

See All


I'm going to miss this. "I'm just going to do my writing", I announce right after dinner, leaving the rest of the pack to tidy and stack, then prep for bed. It buys me just a slice of time. We may be

A Silver Lining

I'm reading a book that was recommended by a friend. "I couldn't pick up another book for three months", she warned. I ordered it right away. When I mentioned the book to another friend, she said read


bottom of page