“Guess if I can whistle,” the boy says.
“What did you say?” the man asks.
“Guess if I can whistle,” the boy repeats. “You guess, and I will tell you if I can or not.”
“Okay,” says the man, “Can you whistle?”
After a long pause the boy says, “No.”
“You can’t whistle?” the man frowns.
“No,” the boy says, correcting the man, “You have to guess.”
“Didn’t I just ask you?” the man questions.
“No, not like that.”
The boy sighs. “You have to say it right.”
The man looks down at the boy watching his eyes.
The boys eyes are focused and unafraid.
“You can whistle—can’t you?” the man inquires.
The boy’s impatience to reveal the truth increases.
“You can’t ask me,” he says, throwing his arms at his sides.
“You have to guess.”
The man stares at the boy and studies him further.
He studies the boy’s fixed eyes and waiting ears.
Bright blue eyes.
Large elephant ears he has yet to grow into.
The sun shines down between them.
It has the man squinting, but not the boy.
The man scratches his peppered chin.
His hand is like dried soil.
Other children chase each themselves between the trees.
Their feet kick up a cloud from the mulch.
The boy has friends tugging at his shirt but pays no attention.
He just waits for the man.
The afternoon breeze pushes the cloud of dust.
The noise dies down.
Both the man and the boy have crossed their arms.
Finally, the man raises his brow, smiles and says, “Hey, I bet you can whistle.”
The boy flashes a confident grin.
He tips his chin up toward the man and says, “Yes, I can.”
