I was bored and started remembering Fairfeild, California where I grew up.. and this is the wonderful shyt I came up with... oh boy
sorry if this takes up room on people's pages, but this is my journal so...
She’s walking across the dotted lines of sentences she wrote back in the first grade. Back when her hair was a mousy brass color and her eyes were a drab blue. The glass marbles she dug into the dirt were still sleeping, their cracked surfaces about to split. She’d won several games with them. Where were they now?
She was always the first one under the parachute and the last one out. She was the one who would get chastised for her clumsiness as she pulled the entire thing down from the sky. Down to the burning ground where her sneakers were planted. Her toes poked out the sides, but she didn’t notice.
The California heat was a blanket over her bare arms.
Her fingers barely grasped the elastic ball. It bounced through her legs and down the hall. Wandering off into some sort of unknown closet where she seemed to lose everything she wanted to let go of. And it sat there, bouncing quietly, betrayed by it’s former owner. The ball would quit bouncing and she’d skip away into a hard jump rope pulled by the fingers of two friends.
She was the quickest at catching the butterflies in her fruit cup containers. She was the best at keeping them alive all through class after recess. She was the one who let it go when the bell rang and watched it fly away until the sun blinded her vision. It’s disheveled spirals would tempt her imagination and she’d chase it’s rainbow colors over and under the swing set until someone would faintly call her name. But she wouldn’t listen. She was the one who never listened.
She was the one who would laugh when someone pulled her hair. She was the one who thought it was wrong to pull back. The bruises along her knees were nothing compared to the sunburn on her cheeks. And the sun seemed to be her only friend. In it, she would find the last inches of sunshine that would allow her to be outside for five more minutes. Outside she would lye on the ground at eye level with the snails and prick her fingers with the tumbleweeds. She’d throw rocks on the roof to hear them make music down the gutters, and at the end she would have a bucket where she would carry the rocks back home. Her mother told her she needed to find a place for the rocks or else she would have to throw them back into the park of the old apartment complex that they lived at.
She was the one who left the rocks on the doorstep.
She was the first one outside with an umbrella when it began to hail. She’d watch the crystals magically fall from the sky and land gracefully in her webbed cup. Taking her small fingers, she would dig through to find the biggest stone and perpetually gaze at it’s shiny surface before licking it with her warm, pink tongue. And she would giggle as it melted on her taste buds and froze the inside of her mouth. All this of course happened before her mother could snatch the umbrella and turn it upside down.
“I need this to go to work.” She’d say without even asking.
With a quick kiss on the forehead and a clip of her high heels, she’d be off towards the streets, disappearing in the windy ice storm.
It would be months until she actually saw snow. There would be no more snails and tumbleweeds and the sun would set behind the water instead of the mountains. Soon she would be wearing weird socks that went up her calf and would always have to wear shoes, even in the summer. And soon, she realized as she saw the smoke rise from behind the old Chevy, she’d have to grow up and go to work too.
And as she sits and watches the snow fall outside her window in her new home, she remembers the way it felt to run barefoot through the streets after the ice cream truck. She remembers the Indian clay at the park that you could find if you dug in the same spot long enough. She remembers dragon flies, peacocks, potato bugs, lizards, wild horses, ranches, snakes, and shooting stars. She remembers rickety docks with fishing pools and fresh water lakes. She remembers mountains and deer, and hitchhikers and people riding throughout town on donkeys. Everything was always being built. Everything was always new and far apart. Everything was dry and bland.
She’s the one who is all grown up. And she still doesn’t listen. And she still remembers what it feels like to have the dry dust of a late evening circulate inside her lungs.