Summer Day

On the hot summer days of my childhood, I ran barefoot through the dry yellowing grass in my back yard. The stiffness of the ground stung my feet, but I was too busy chasing butterflies to notice. From my small wooden swing-set, I watched the way the sunlight reflected off the mallard’s smooth metallic green head like a prism overflowing with crystalline green reflec-tions. The giant weeping willow rinsed its leafy strands of hair in the current of the cool clean river mud. I wanted to stand tall like the willow tree, sink my roots into the thick river mud, and feel it squish between my toes.

The muddy water closest to the bank was where I crouched to watch the water striders dance. They could skate across the water the way that the sequined figure skaters could glide across the ice. They were only little black bugs, but I watched them with the same reverence and awe.

I dipped a toe tip in the water just for a quick test. It burned like frost for an instant, but it was satisfying in the same way as ice cold lemonade. I stepped in slowly one foot at a time, letting each square inch of my flesh feel the tingling relief and I waded across the pebbled floor with careful steps, measuring the size of each stone by how much space it covered on my small sole. I stood still to watch for minnows, and to catch the reflections of the shiniest sand polished stones.

One stone with a lady-slipper pink sparkle caught my eye. I dug my fingers into the soft dirt, and pulled up a handful of dripping stones. The pale pink pebble shimmered in the sunlight. One by one, I flipped over and fondled the remaining stones. Choosing only the most magnificent, I plunked the rest back into the river where they floated, sank, and settled a few feet away. I passed the afternoon collecting rocks from the river until I had only the most beautiful and brilliant few.

I carried them to the wooden deck behind the house where I set them to dry in the sunlight. I picked wild flowers from the tall grass of the soggy riverbank until I could see the sun dipping lower in the sky. I skipped across the lawn and up the wooden steps, almost forgetting to retrieve my newfound treasures. I picked up the stones and turned them over with disap-pointment and confusion. They were now dull and dusty, lacking the illustrious twinkle they had when I discovered them.

I scooped them up in my palm, and hung my head with discontentment as I walked back to the bank. I turned my palm towards the river, and unclenched my small fish full of stones. After splashing down, I watched each stone sink and settle, and begin to sparkle again. It was not the rocks, but the river that made the fantastical glimmer appear on the sand polished stones. The stones were merely the means by which the river conveyed its magic.

I smiled with delight, knowing that few people would ever see that same magic, and that I was lucky to live on the river. RWOL

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