What Do You Remember?

I can feel the sun burning the back of my head. My dark hair pulled taut into braids, even here, even in the mountains, so tight it makes my scalp hurt when I turn my head. But still I squat there, burning head and tight scalp. My stick is a good tool and I can turn over big clods of dark almost black soil. Soon, there they are, squirming, writhing away from the sun that heats my head. Daddy is pleased. We pull them out – gently so they don’t pull apart. Dig in, dirt in your nails, gently place the soft pink earthworms in a cup. I have a brother and two sisters somewhere in this wood but I’m the only one taking in the lesson. I want to be near him, to feel his hand over mine while I hold the fishing line, to watch him put a worm on a hook just right. I feel a little sorry for the worm, but I wouldn’t risk missing all of this just for a silly old worm.

You have to be quiet, stay out of the sunlight, don’t cast your shadow on the water. The fish are smart in their cold world. My eyes are still too young and not yet hungry enough to see them flash in the water but he sees them and if I’m watchful – ever watchful – I can see one jump after a bug on the water. Even though I can’t see them, they can see me, he warns. There – just there – let your hook float past.

That feeling, like no other in the world and impossible to describe. How can they be so strong? How on earth can I keep from squealing when my rod jumps and rolls in my hand. Oh, don’t lose it, don’t let it go.

Don’t let it go.

I never wanted to, but like all that is memory and time it slips silently into something I can barely hold. Tears prick my eyes while I stand at the edge of something so far away. My favorite place in all the world, images and years and the sound of rushing water, always the rushing water and the stones slipping into the new shape of the river.