Memories

Do you remember when we made the world flat? When we could fold a map of the earth in two and step through and be on the other side of the world? I remember, and like the good storyteller that I am, I’ll remind you.

When I was born, you held my tiny hand, and you told me that when I was able to get about on my own that you would show me the tire swing and the front lawn and dip me in the water of the stream that ran behind your house. I think I was asleep, then.

When I was ten, you weren’t so interested in streams and woods and the dark places that were full of mystery as you had been. But there was the time when you and I ran through the forest and you forgot that you were almost an adult and you and I were just like we had always been, wild and built for rolling in the dirt and climbing trees. When we came to the road on the far side of the woods, you leaned against the last tree, the one with the roots that made the asphalt ripple and crack, and you told me that it was time to grow up. In the world, you said, there wasn’t any place for rolling in the dirt and climbing trees. I didn’t say anything; I nodded my head instead, soaking in your wisdom. Then we ran back through the woods like wild people and when we ran out we didn’t stop at the edge of the wood as we had done before, we made for our front doors, and we never spoke of our wild past together again.

Maybe we are excellent listeners? It seemed so, because I didn’t climb another tree for years, which is a crime of sorts for a ten year old, and you graduated from high school and moved into the world of adult responsibilities. Time, as it was, passed like the wind, rustling the leaves of the trees, turning the grass brown and green and brown again in an endless succession. I remembered, occasionally, the woods and the feel of the loam beneath my bare feet, the tension under your skin as your arms pulled you higher in the branches than I ever dared to go. Those memories were grand, and I let them fill me briefly with nostalgia, though I had no idea that was what I was doing at the time, and then I sent it away from me like a boomerang, to return later when I was weakened to those particular influences.

I walked through fire, as I’m sure you did. Life can be like burning coals we’re forced to stumble over. It makes our soles hard on the outside, and it takes genuine care to bring out the softness again. Here we are again, wild in an adult way, mostly, and taken by the notion our hearts are still built like they were when we were children, balsa wood and Elmer’s glue and not brick and mortar. Maybe it’s true on some level, but on close inspection, maybe our hearts are much more leathery than we give them credit for, and those places we reserve for our childhood memories smaller than they ought to be.

Maybe that’s okay?

When I think of our time together, I think of it in only the grandest terms, and that is for the best. I don’t want to remember all of the scrapes, cuts and bruises; it’s much better this way, idyllic and full of bright summer sunlight.