Jack and Jill

Every day was the same. The sun rose, silhouetting the sleepy village in the valley. A rooster's crow would echo, the doors to the barn would swing open, and the river would glow a dazzling orange under the painted sky of the early morning. For as long as I can remember, that is how it had been, ever since the Old Man dug me, built my now cracked brick walls and crispy thatch awning. Every day was the same until the day it wasn't. Instead of the Old Man's soft shuffling tread, the hill on which I sat was filled with the gleeful shrieks of children. The piercing giggles cut through the silence of the dawn, and if it was possible, I would have jumped in surprise. It was like being showered with cold rain, unexpected but not necessarily unpleasant. Two heads bobbed up the hill as the sun rose at their backs and turned their fluffy blond curls into shining halos. The Little Boy reached me first, his cheeks rosy like the small flowers that grew from the cracks of my weathered stone. A Little Girl followed him, dragging the Old Man's bucket after her. Taking the dented pail, the Boy sent it plunging down. His small body heaved and shook as he fought to bring the bucket, now heavy with water, back up. His little feet skittered as the soft dirt shifted under them. With a final mighty tug, he freed the bucket, its sudden explosion out of my depths sending him stumbling backward, his short arms spinning like the windmills a few hills over. He rolled and rolled and rolled away, coming to a thump in a cloud of dust at the bottom of my hill, and the girl came running after.