Butterfly Gardens - May 2006
The field in between Thursday Girl Scouts meetings and the summer pool, with a basketball hoop in the deep end, was called the Butterfly Garden, although I don't ever remember seeing many butterflies. I remember overgrown grain and grass that looked like a mustard-colored ocean when the winds blew over the neighborhood and across a wooden pier built on the taller part of the hill. I remember sitting on the pier and looking for butterflies swimming in the yellow waves below. I remember looking for orange butterflies, monarchs, because Ms. Timothy showed us a video in science class about monarch butterflies, and I’d never seen another kind, so monarchs must be the best. Orange butterflies, yellow grass, brown wooden splinters in my knees, waiting until the sun dipped down to say goodnight and kiss the whole town pink for 20 whole minutes. Mom doesn’t like it when I stay out past sundown, so I look for fireflies on my walk home.
I remember overgrown grain and grass that looked like a mustard-colored ocean when the winds blew over the neighborhood and across a wooden pier built on the taller part of the hill.
Catching Bugs in the Basement - December 2014
The basement has a big, squishy, green leather couch that’s much comfier than the nice new one upstairs, especially when you’re watching cartoons and hanging upside down with your feet hooked over the backrest. But before I make it to the couch I see a big yellow-tan lump on the floor with six long, bent legs. Running as fast as my sneaker-less feet can take me, I clamp an empty crystal whiskey glass from the cabinet over the little guy’s head. The base of the glass magnifies the bug’s face and the stripes down its back, but it still doesn’t move, and I’m just barely old enough to understand why. Still, not taking any chances, I slid a paper slip under the glass. It takes quite a while to get the courage to slide my hand under the glass as well. I just stare through the glass at eyes that can’t stare back, even leave it there a few days to see if someone else might take care of it, but I’m the only one who likes the green leather couch more than the nice, new one so the glass remains untouched. When I finally make the pilgrimage, with one hand under the paper and one on top of the glass, all the way down the hall to flush that bug down the toilet forever, I am very proud of myself. I feel very brave.
Strawberry Farms - February 2005
A stampede of buttoned up children poured out the big yellow bus into bigger strawberry fields, with red-freckled strawberry plants all in a row. After the tour, the kids sat down on old unstable picnic tables and sank their baby teeth into the freshest red fruit, juice running down their chins and sticking to their fingers, climbing over themselves to get to the last of it. I was among them, in the same crowd. I’d had fruit before, and I’ve had it since, but I will never forget the first fresh harvest.
Overgrown Walking Paths - July 2007
I woke up early at 7am to take a walk with mom, because that’s something adults do, and I like pretending to be an adult. The sidewalk is as old as I am, and I already see cracks and weeds threatening to overtake the whole path. Mom doesn’t seem too concerned, but also she’s further away from the ground, so I don’t think she can see how bad the problem has gotten. She still tells me again not to worry and to just look up at the trees. I guess looking away from the problem is something that adults do, so I’ll give it a try. The light breaks through the leaves like stained glass. It’s pretty, I’m glad I looked up, but I still trip over the vines and roots breaking through the concrete below my shoes.
She still tells me again not to worry and to just look up at the trees. I guess looking away from the problem is something that adults do, so I’ll give it a try.
Sunflowers - January 2012
I read on the internet that sunflowers turn towards the sun as they grow, so now I draw little sunflowers in the corners and on the edges of all my school papers and worksheets. I never liked the idea of growing, but I like the idea of growing towards the sun.
Sitting with a Cat - October 2018
The town’s been steeped in night for several hours already by the time my car’s parking brake is locked on the side of the street and I pull my leaden bones out of the driver’s seat to go inside. Baby waits next to the mailbox, as always. She likes to take a break from her neighborhood adventures to say hello on the weekdays I come home late. She likes to say “hi” with a meow and a rub against my leg, and today my bones are too heavy to quite make it to the front door so I sit with her and count her orange spots against the white fur. I think cats have telepathy, and I think she knows when I’m about to cry, but she never says anything about it, and I appreciate that. The stars look the same as yesterday, and the day before and the day before that, and I appreciate that. Baby tries to follow me inside when I’ve finally pulled my aching joints to the front door, but she doesn’t belong in places that aren’t her own, and she listens when I tell her that. She listens when I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow night.
