(no subject)
I remember running barefoot through the woods, letting the smell of pine and construction and animal feces overwhelm me. Sneaking across the creek, making our way over the rotted tree where Allison and I would lie on our bellies and soak our toes in the cold, muddy water-this was my summer haven. Neighborhood boys would play beside us in the sewer under the road, but we were content with the creek's slow flow and the sound of Carolina Wrens chirping above. We would stay there until supper, and as soon as it became dark, Allison and I would run wildly through the streets, chasing lightening bugs, the boys across the street, and glow-up Frisbees, whichever we could catch first.
The rotted log finally gave way sometime in September, its split pieces littering the creek we loved. Allison moved to Missouri when the school year ended, and the year after that, the parents of the boys across the street split up. Summer was never the same.
It still lingers inside of me, that summer, in a healing, redeeming way. That creek is still my sanctuary, replacing my doubt and cynicism with a sound so true to me: chirping Carolina Wrens.
The rotted log finally gave way sometime in September, its split pieces littering the creek we loved. Allison moved to Missouri when the school year ended, and the year after that, the parents of the boys across the street split up. Summer was never the same.
It still lingers inside of me, that summer, in a healing, redeeming way. That creek is still my sanctuary, replacing my doubt and cynicism with a sound so true to me: chirping Carolina Wrens.