When we were five, Abby, we played in your garden, just like every day.

We played with your red ball, the one that got replaced every Christmas, just like every day.

You won all the games we played that required ball-skills. I won all the games we played that needed strategy.

Just like every day.

It was just like every day except for two things.

The first thing was that it was in the afternoon after our first day of school. The second thing was that it was the first time I was sent home before the sky became stained with orange.

The sun hadn't even tinted pink or dipped below the horizon yet.

When we were seven, Abbey, we played in your garden, just like every week.

We played with your newly replaced ball, because we were still clinging to Christmas. We didn't want the holidays to end.

You still won with your skill, and I still won with my strategy.

Just like every week.

It was just like every week except for two things.

The first thing was that it was in the afternoon before the last day of Christmas holidays. The second thing was that it was the second time that I was sent home before the night began to smell of crispness.

The sun was still blazing yellow in the center of the sky.

When we were nine, Abbey, I waited outside your garden, just like every month.

You would come out the gate and we would walk to school together, bouncing your red ball lazily, just like every month. We didn't play any games with it except two-square.

Just like every month.

Sometimes you won, sometimes I won.

It was just like every month except for two things.

The first thing was that it was the last day of school that year. The second thing was that you didn't come out the gate. Your house was as empty as a water hole in the desert, apart from your red ball.

Before I left for school I took it from your garden.

"Hello?"