Why is it so difficult for me to actually post anything? I deleted this several times already.
We sang “My Heavenly Father Loves Me” in Seminar yesterday. I have always loved that song; it seems to find tiny bits of my memories and connect them in a way that I never could.Birds used to build nests in our big tree every spring - we always wanted to see them, but could never climb high enough. I would lie on the grass and watch as the birds engraved their soaring wings through our endless blue sky. I felt like our house, our yard, our sky, was the center and sum of the universe. My mom made us work in the garden every summer, usually weeding, while she tended to her roses. My sister collected the fallen petals once and placed them in a small glass bowl that she put on top of the laundry hamper in the hallway. They lost their scent by that night, but if you stirred the petals with your finger, the fragrance hiding underneath would float up into the air, filling the hallway with roses. Growing up, we had three lilac trees – two purple, and one white. They smelled like spring, and drooped gently off of the trees like flowered pinecones. I liked to pick off the individual 4-petaled flowers, and scatter them on the sidewalk, like a tangible spring rain. In the summer we would steal the green goldfish nets from behind the fish tank and run through the yard and pasture, chasing the bright butterflies. They seemed to just drift through the air, but somehow were always faster than us. Sometimes we’d go grasshopper and cricket hunting out behind the barn – we fed them to the gecko, and my dad paid us five cents a cricket. We hoarded our small handfuls of pennies carefully, until we had a chance to go to Gromore. The tiny gas station had penny candy and was just a couple miles away, though the hot pavement burning through the soles of my shoes made it feel farther. But my favorite parts of summer were the storms – I would stand outside on the driveway, arms outstretched, while the rain enveloped everything around me. I loved the different sounds: the rain hitting the ground, the grass, my skin, small pools of water; the thunder lowly rumbling over the far hills. And there was always the smell – the electric burnt heat of the lightning, as though the sky were on fire, mixed with the fresh clarity of the rushing rain.As I walked home yesterday, the sky overflowed with clouds of dark blues and grays, and the acrid scent of lightning brushed my skin, making the skin on my bare arms prickle. I lifted my face to the almost-warm rain pouring out of the sky, and let the wind rush through me, pulling and tugging at my dress and hair. I didn’t have a jacket, and I hate being cold – but storm cold is different from other kinds of cold. When I reached the Hart building, the air suddenly stilled; I looked around and could see the trees swaying in the wind, the branches and leaves trying to fly loose from each other. But the air around me was perfectly still and quiet, as though I were encased in glass. I spun in a circle, stretching my arms upwards and outwards, not even caring if the guy trudging past me with his hood up thought I was crazy. I ran the rest of the way home, through the storm.Afterwards I cooked and sang along with Anne Murray in the kitchen, and I almost felt like I was home again. I thought about calling my mom, but I didn’t really want to talk to her. Instead I wrapped myself in my memories and danced in the bright fluorescent kitchen, while the clouds filled the world outside.
Posted by Crystal at 5/21/2008 04:33:00 PM