Boyhood

Boyhood, for Miles, was a series of crucial, unsolvable problems.

One Saturday, his father took him to the hardware store to buy a new shovel. On the way home, they passed the baseball field. “Remember when you wanted to be a shortstop for the Cardinals?” his father asked. Boyhood

Third: the ache. Her name was Sarah Kellen. She had a blue bike with a white banana seat and she could turn a cartwheel on a patch of grass the size of a dinner plate. One day, during a game of kickball, she said, “Nice catch, Miles.” It wasn’t what she said, but how she said it. Like she had actually seen him. That night, he felt something unfamiliar—a crack in the smooth, unthinking surface of his boyhood. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror for five minutes, trying to make his hair lie flat. He didn’t understand it. It felt like missing something he’d never had. He decided it was a stomachache and ate three cookies. Boyhood, for Miles, was a series of crucial,

Miles, now twelve and in the long, awkward bridge between boy and something else, shrugged. “That was, like, two years ago.” “Remember when you wanted to be a shortstop

First: the dam. A spring rain had swelled the little creek at the edge of the property into a roaring, inch-deep torrent. Miles and his friend Leo spent three days hauling stones, packing mud, and weaving sticks into a barrier meant to hold back the Atlantic. The water, indifferent to their engineering, simply went around. Then under. Then, with a final, gurgling sigh, it knocked a single stone loose and undid a morning’s work in ten seconds. Miles threw a handful of mud at the sky. Leo laughed so hard he fell over. They rebuilt it anyway, this time with a bend in the middle, “like a real river.” It held for almost an hour.

That night, he took his old baseball glove from under his bed. The leather was stiff, the pocket shallow. He didn’t put it on. He just held it for a minute, smelling the ghost of cut grass and hose water. Then he put it in the bag of clothes his mother was donating.