I remember, it was in summer, I was boy, in this village near the sea. It was hot, arid weather, which dried our eyes and skin crackled. We were children, just kids running across the dusty square in front of the church. The ocher ground heaved in fog swirls.

I remember her, she was older, she was not so beautiful, but there was something in her face, in her supple body, her openness to other children was that I do admired. There was only one queen, it was her.

We were leaving to adventure, crossed boundaries of our neighborhood, explore the marsh. She knew where to collect freshwater oysters. And even if I hated the taste, I accompanied her. The muddy feet. I was the privileged one.

It had rained, there was a storm, as there every summer, a tempest that tear, smash, sweep. There was no longer electricity. We had lit the candles.

From the first floor of the house at eleven o'clock at night, I was looking through the window, I watched our garden that we could not see anymore, the well, the great catalpa. There was nothing anymore. Just a thick gray curtain, opaque. My parents also watched.

The next day the inflatable pool was flat, and when I was questioning my parents about this, they told me that it was probably a branch that had fallen over. Burst, the pool.

In my apocalyptic imagination, it was the lightning flash that killed it. Which had made it skin. Pitiful trophy spread there. I was sad, and she came to get me in the marshes, to save me, save the pool. We spread the green and neon pink leather, in the front of the house, in the garden, when the sunny days have returned. We made it dry, we loved it. Suspended on the branches of the catalpa.

My parents threw it, few days later. It was over.

Leather is still hung in my memory.

I remember the bean soup. It came after. I remember. We picked up the fruits of the tree in the garden. Long, green. Beans. We had tried to bite into it, but it was bitter. We had spat. So we had cooked a soup. We made with our beach stuff and had soup for our mothers. There was mud. Water. Insects. We were not afraid. We were not afraid to kill, as we did not know what death was.

I tasted, we shared the meal. The brown liquid was running down from our cheeks. Before falling on the ground. We were no laughing. All of that was important, ceremonial. We left our bowls next to the well and we left.

And I began to tell her lies, to scare her, to make her laugh, to feel strong. She had learned to not trust me. I left childhood.