By Sandrine Ferst (Montreal, QC)

Tonka.What a great name for a truck. Easy to say. Strong and solid. Big fat black wheels and bright shinny yellow. Nothing could destroy my truck. Okay, maybe not my truck. I was supposed to be playing with Barbie dolls. YUCK! No way! I was the eldest and therefore it was my truck. Just try to take it away from me.

The balcony was our backyard. Big slabs of grey concrete sides and fake green grass on the 33rd floor of our downtown apartment building. It's a good thing I was only four, because the balcony was  big enough for myself and my two younger brothers. But why our toys were on the balcony is beyond me. We lived in Canada now. Cold, wet, snowy and for a short time, hot and sunny.

Broom, broom, smash, mash, bash  and crash. Sweating from all my hard Tonka playing, I plunk down into Big Bear. Relaxing in his big floppy arms I suddenly have an idea. I grab my resilient trusty truck, peer over the balcony and let Tonka drop. As I watch it fall, so does Mr. Janitor, standing directly below in the parking lot.

I quickly dash into the apartment, hurl myself into Mom's big  funky high backed chair, and grab a magazine with pictures of lots of girls in pretty dresses and lots of make-up.

Knock, knock... Mrs. Ferst!

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