26 December 2010

Passion fruits are passion.

My neighbours and I are not only close in age but also close in friendship.
I don't think theres ever been a time where we've kept something from each other or a week where we haven't been together.
We drive to school together and catch the train home and on weekends we're off riding our horses on new hidden trails or going on picnics and starting adventures exploring dried up creek beds and paddocks filled with cows and eagles.

I remember one time when we walked up the dirt road together in our old muck about clothes laughing as we raced each other towards Geneva's house. It was hot and it was summer and we didn't have a care in the world. It was pure bliss.
I remember sitting under the pine trees in the afternoon sun pulling passion fruits off the huge vine that creeped it's way up the old tennis court fence. We broke them open with rocks and sucked the sweet, fresh pulp from the holes we had just made, dirt and all. We laughed as the juice ran down our chins and pooled in our laps. We were sticky and hot and covered in what was our idea of summer holidays. We were all best friends, soaking up our youth as we went.
I remember after how we rolled down the hill in front of us feeling slightly sick and giddy and I remember walking home, piggybacking Tanya as Daniella and Phoebe ran ahead. We were all singing our hearts out to "OO EE OO AH AH, Ting tang walla walla bing bang...!" with the sun beginning to set low in front of us.

It's one of my fondest memories, one that I will hold on to forever.

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