I remember what I was wearing. Dark green sweat pants – the kind so obnoxiously prevalent in the eighties, with the bunched elastic ankles and waistline made of ultra thick spongy cotton. It strikes me as odd, now, that I was wearing pants at all- it was summer. Or at least it seemed like it. I remember the pants because I remember looking down at them when my brother and his friends pulled them off of me. I remember the blue canvas mat beneath me. It was one of those gymnastic play mats, shaped like a wedge, about six feet long. Kids used to do flips on them and wrestle each other. I remember looking down at my pants, at the mat beneath me, and noticing all the cracks in the canvas; looking at all the dried leaves stuck to the very edges of it, where the underside had been pressed against the ground all winter. I remember thinking that if I flipped it over I would find more bugs than I could count. I remember the sound of the wind in the leaves of the maple trees- a strange sort of fluttering, chattering whisper. I remember the color of my pants. And I remember the sound of my brothers voice, asking me if I wanted to play a game.