I remember when I was a little boy in Brooklyn, I would pass by this six story apartment building when I walked home from the park with my friends and grandmother. I remember the air conditioners pertruding from the first floor windows, and the rest of the window was usually caged off. As I walked by, I knew who was rich and who was poor. It was evident by whether the air conditioner existed or not. Every once in a while, I saw a face in the window, watching us.



I remember when summer started to turn into fall, and the warm evening breeze that we would feel before the sun even started setting, when the leaves on the ground slowly scurried around, one after the other. It was almost always followed by an empty, lively sound. I knew that somewhere, fathers were playing basketball with their kids in the asphault, caged off garages that two houses shared. I knew that somewhere, there was a mother telling her kids to go inside, or trying to get their hyperactive children to put on a jacket, telling them that they'll get sick if they don't. And I knew that in the deli on the corner of where P.S. 205 was, the owner, a middle aged Korean man, was looking mad and furious, suspicious of anybody that came close to him. It was said that he hated kids, yet I saw him bring his daughter to take piano lessons from my mom every week.



I remember walking silently along each other, cracking a joke every once in a while and sharing our life-long dreams of piloting robots, turning into superheroes or being in a rock band. These conversations were almost always ended with a Bill-and-Tedd-esque "Excellent!" and a three second session of air-guitar.



We were the typical 90s kids in the typical 90s city; torn jeans, flannel and untamed hair, walking around and tossing a handball to each other, liberally talking about the Playboy magazines we've looked at or the violent movies we've seen.



In the park, we were a pack of wolves in a jungle of lambs (or a pack of birds in an ocean of squirrels; taking flight from the trees that the rest could only climb). Nobody messed with us. We ran from tree to tree trying to defend robots from dying, or fighting some Putty Monsters while morphing into our respective Power Ranger forms. Our grandmothers sat and watched, talking to each other, laughing. I always imagined that there was a princess in the sewer, and I was a prince that had to rescue her. Unfortunately, the manhole cover was always too heavy to move.



This, of course, followed the usual after-school activities we participated in; A-S-S-E-S-U-P in the very large school yard, a game which involved speed, good aim, good catching abilities, a handball and a wall. Sometimes we would line up against the wall and throw the ball at each other hoping not to get hit. Violent games were the only kind we knew. Everything else was too girly or childish.



Every day in school I would look forward to these activities. I sat and daydreamed about what I would do in the schoolyard that day, and when I would go to the park to meet my best friend from a few blocks away (who unfortunately went to another school). While the science teacher discussed light and electricity, or while we learned how to divide and multiply, or even when we were reading short passages in long books (which I liked a lot), I daydreamed about my friend in a flying car, or turning into a Power Ranger. Somehow, it always turned into thoughts of what I would do that day.



I thought about this as we walked to the park, as well. It seemed that imagination was more important than the real life we had. I imagined things that would happen, and when they did, I imagined them some more. These moments were always better in my mind (and I assume everybody else's as well) than seen through our eyes and percieved through our brain.



After our usual activities, I would walk home with my grandmother, dirty and exhausted, hungrier than a carnivorous rabbit with missing teeth and happier than a mother whose baby got saved from a burning building. I knew that when we reach my grandparents' apartment, my grandfather would try to teach me chess or nag me about excersizing, unaware of the workout I recieved while running from almost certain death if I didn't turn into a giant robot. I would read a Goosebumps book, first checking the last few pages to see if I would be satisfied. The ending was never important, but the middle was everything. Sometime after that, I would do my homework. Later that day, my parents would pick me up and we would watch TV or talk about what we did that day. I would listen to my mother's stomach and hope that my brother would kick me in the face, showing me some sign that he knows I'm there.



The next day was always the same, yet I always looked forward to it. I would either go to the park again, or maybe go straight home and do my homework and read. Maybe I'd go to Judo, or maybe bike-riding with my dad (if he wasn't at work). Maybe I'd roller blade or maybe my parents would visit Rita's parents. Maybe I'd go to my friend's house to play Mortal Kombat or to see his Evil Ernie cards. Maybe I would even go to the library with my grandfather.



Every once in a while, walking back with my grandfather from the library, it started to rain, and I remember passing by some school, picturing dragons flying around the top of it. I loved when it rained, it made me so sleepy in school. I just sat and daydreamed (as if it wasn't what I always did).



The rain was always slow and gloomy, casting a shadow over its innocent victims. At the same time, however, it was beautiful and happy. The slow rumbling of the thunder sounded like a hopeful song to me, bassy and powerful. I sat on the chair nearest the window at my grandparents house, occasionally glancing towards the TV to catch episodes of Darkwing Duck that I've already seen (needless to say that if Power Rangers were on, it would have my undivided attention). The raindrops were beautiful, and I often wished I was outside in them. I slowly watched the puddles accumulate water and felt so alive. It felt as if I was watching my life, slowly learning more and more with each bit of knowledge dripped onto me.



I remember moving from Brooklyn, saying goodbye to my friends. And I remember thinking about how I'll turn out to be, where I'll be in a few years. I remember wondering how long we'll keep returning to Brooklyn for the weekends.



I remember when my friends moved away and how lonely I felt.



I remember the day we stopped coming to Brooklyn and how much I cried.



I remember slowly changing into who I am today.



And now I wonder, would I have turned out diferently if I stayed in Brooklyn? When all the Italians moved out and all the Russians moved in, what would happen?



Life is a very weird thing, and to this day I'll look out the window when it rains, watching the wide puddles get even wider.



I try not to step on them, hoping never to disturb their slow and steady growth and their reflection of the world around them.