The summer you were nine...

 It's only the first week of July and my boy is banged up like a log that's been run through the rapids.  i asked him what happened when i saw his legs this morning and he shrugged, "Nothin'..."
"But why are your legs covered in tiny cuts and bruises?" i pressed.
"OH!" his face brightens into an enormous grin, "We were riding our bikes down Elgin Hill," (a huge tobogganing hill in our neighbourhood) i shutter imagining my son hurtling down that steep slope, "and I got some from that... and then we were catching fish in the pond and I slipped on the rocks.  Maybe from street hockey?  Or from racing on our scooters... i dunno..."
And he's nine.  His fishing nets and various plastic containers are stored on the deck, beside his scooter and his helmet.  He wants a job, and was disgruntled when Neil said he couldn't do a good enough job cutting grass to get paid for it. 
He's nine and he thinks this neighbourhood is his tiny kingdom and he reigns merrily over it.  From the Mac's store where he buys the treats with the pittance earned from their lemonade stand - to the pond teeming with the life that little boys never tire of examining, capturing, releasing...
He's nine - and in years to come there will be responsibilities, wages earned and less time for impromptu street hockey games, conquering playgrounds and ultimate fighting championships on his friend's trampoline...
Right now, he's working on childhood... and childhood is hard work...
He's got the scars to prove it.