the edge of something
sometimes i'll be driving somewhere -- in this case, a back road less than twenty miles from my house, on the way to visit friends for dinner -- and i'll see something that will literally steal my breath. this time, i had to pull over. yes, it's just a half-mowed horse field, but something about it resonated. maybe it was that imperfect edge. or the smoothness of the curves. or the simplicity of an open, uncultivated field. but it put something into perspective, something i can't quite articulate. it made me long for girlhood, that innocent time when i could sit under a tree and read for four hours straight, answering to no one, needing nothing other than the book in my hand and sneakers to get me home. maybe i'm romanticizing a girlhood i didn't really have, but that's ok.
it's never too late, and there are a few trees left.
Jennifer König
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I was thinking about girlhood yesterday, but I can't remember what sparked it. I know that every time I smell that metallic, chlorinated smell of a garden hose, newly wet, expelling all that held-in heat, I think of the drinks I'd take from it as a kid, protected from harm by my lack of knowledge. None of us died drinking from a garden hose, of course, but we won't let our kids do it.
exactly! it's like jumping in a pile of leaves. we had no problems doing that as kids, images of charlie borown and the great pumpkin dancing in our little heads. now, we worry about ticks and garbage and the modern-day bogeyman, flirting with danger as we kick up a nicely raked pile-let of leaves safely on the sidewalk.