Gemma carefully leaned across the Bull Briars, the claws of the
nearest branch scraping a long thin line into her wrist, small droplets of
blood emerging as her hand finally reached Lucia’s, long fingers sliding into the other’s, her dry
lined skin rustling along digits as
Lucia grabbed hold , as she felt herself
pulled . From the patch she had so painfully fallen into, slowly pulled to her
feet, Gemma now facing her with a broad sorry grin.
“Crap! That hurt!” Lucia spit out, and then, rubbing her long newly
adolescent legs and butt, she checked for thorns, glanced at her savior friend with
a quick conspiratorial smile,
a laugh escaping at the thought of the awkward fall, embarrassing really, that
her stunningly fast footwork along the steep trail down to the brash,
magnificent river had been the undoing.
Laughing back at Lucia, Gemma turned and again headed further
down the rocky trail, careful to place her worn, thin soled sneakers next to
the protruding rocks, picking up speed as they both thrilled themselves with
their rapid, perilous descent, on a boring scorching August afternoon,
barreling toward the narrow, rocky shore far below.
Hundreds of Cedar Waxwings, summer vacationing in the
Bittersweet-claimed river maples, rustled overhead in cool shade, muttering and
complaining, yet refusing to be dislodged by two 13 year olds scampering
through their quiet neighborhood.
Once at the bottom, out of breath, the two leaned into the river
for the view up the riversides, then studied the waters down in the opposite
direction. One side was a steep incline
stabilized by enormous slate blue rocks to create the Arroyo of protection
against errant, city-endangering flooding; the other side extended out
naturally, simply pure river and river bank. The Ash, Maple, and Oak trees flourished,
their roots grown deep into the fertile land on the edge of dangerously fast
waters, their trunks grown accustomed over seasons to the capricious ebb and flow,
not of tides, but rather, floods, droughts, and storms.
Across the broad waterway, two Great Blue Herons lifted their
long legs, one after the other, languid, fishing their way along the banks,
picking among the fishlets that streamed along the river this afternoon, whose
small mouths sipped the air for the early evening insects that swarmed along
the tops of the dappled waters.
Not a person in sight.
Off came the sneakers and shorts, t shirts and underwear, long
hair straggling down young backs, then feet sinking, indolent,
into river soil, the air passing by in a delicious small wind.
They were left feeling
like powerful maidens of old, on some venture or another; full of vital
purpose, called upon for unique gifts and abilities. Like that, they felt, in
this small universe, smooth and free and essential, at the bottom of the poison ivy/ briar laden
path, standing in the shade of the vine-covered trees, not a person or boat in
sight.
With care, they each took steps into the chilled waters, noting
the pace of the current further out, toes and then ankles and then calves
slowly coursed with river streaming past, then knees, then, as always, with wisdom
and care, sat right there, not going further into the wildes of the
Connecticut.
For every summer, there were news stories of who drowned where.
Swimmers. Fishers. Kids. Adults. Yeah, your car would be delayed on some street
between Northampton and Easthampton, while a police car, lights flashing, would
stand by, some citizen with old clothes and army surplus sleeping bag rolled up
next to them, sitting on the rail road tracks, head in hands at the horror we
knew was the sight of a swollen, ripened dead body they had come upon, possibly
while fishing, or was it after waking up late this morning, to turn over and
set sight on that unknown someone, washed up not far from their wooded sleeping
spot, a bit nibbled, white and sodden.
Yeah, with that kind of care, they sat there in the shallows,
watching the enormous Galleon-like Cumulus clouds stream by overhead, one after
the other, as if catching sight of another land entirely, tall and stately;
inviting, filled to the brim with possibility, possibility which wandered and
blossomed in their mind’s eye, as they sat upon the fragrant river’s bed.
Lying back into the silt rich sand, arms thrown overhead,
enjoying the odd feel of hair soaking up the river water with its cool and damp
climbing up toward our heads, they listened to everything and nothing, closed
eyes and feeling every pore on their bodies, every wisp of air that wandered by,
every cloud of insects that came to visit, every ripple and splash of some
sweet old fish reaching up out of the water for a plump dragon fly, then diving
back, bequeathed to the Goddess of
gravity, to munch the insect remains, and swish their sleek huge form down
into dark river depths once again.
The sun began to move, sluggishly, high across the sky, and the
air slowly cooled. Motor boats began appearing, their thrumming sound
approaching round corners, then noisily careening by, dragging behind them screaming
kids on tubes, laughing adults on water
skis, the riverbanks sloshing rhythmic waves across calves and backs in the
boat’s wake.
They both lay low, sunken into the rich old river soil,
invisible to all passing by.
Until finally the mosquitoes did awaken, and begin to discover our
flesh, and they reluctantly sat up, feeling hair thick with the markers of
early onset of dusk, with dark wet sand , heavily dripping down backs.
One last glance at the broad waterway, and they would stand,
finally, stepping with respectful care out out of the waters, onto the banks, where, with
great difficulty, began the struggle to stand on one leg, then the other, and
try to reach one filthy foot into a leg of underpants, then the other. Pull a T-shirt
over damp, sand-haired head and shoulders. Finally, the worn sneakers pulled
upon dirt covered feet, scraping tender soles with each step back up the steep
rocky track.
Past the greedy poison
ivy tendrils reaching clear across worn dirt; past the tall, riotous briar patches,
the Pine Siskins prettily pirouetting through. Tripping and struggling up to the thick, aged
Maple standing guard at the juncture of farmer’s fields, the wide open
conservation walkway, and all the secret river paths left behind.
Out of Lucia’s pocket was pulled a squashed plastic bag of
crackers and peanut butter, smooshed all together, the crackers a thousand
pieces, but no matter, they turned the bag inside out, hungrily scraping the
mess up with dirt filled fingernails, pressing the mix into mouths, looking out
over the soy, the potato, the tobacco fields that stretched far toward the distant
highway, toward the mountain range, toward the tall trees that lined the
old streets, stately and worn old homes living and breathing side by side, lined with
so many lives.
Standing there, Gemma pushed the twisted up plastic bag into mud crusted shorts. As they began to
walk, both noticed the scrape of sand upon toes, soles. Off came sneakers, both of them laughing, then
mmmm, their feet blissfully cool upon the long grass that stood, growing up,
tall, beneath the broad wings of the old tree.
Up against the ancient Maple, leaning into Lucia, a shy smile on
her face, eyes a bit askance, Gemma pressed her lips carefully against Lucia’s…slowly…simply…a
thirteen-year-old kiss.
Then Gemma stepped back, it all passing like the swallows miming
quickened winds overhead, like the river whitecaps in winter, slapping and
racing with their fury; passing like courage and fear, like consolation and youth, loyalty and
relief. Passing the way deep friendship and nakedness within a quiet river afternoon
does, a solemn, trenchant ease.
It did pass as they slowly wandered with mud streaked sneakers
swinging in hands, down the sun baked late afternoon trail, past the now numerous,
invading and ever so purposeful walkers. The helmeted mountain bikers. The lonely,
ardent dog walkers. The careworn-responsible child-carriers; past those
photographing the sun as it effortlessly lowered itself into the waiting
horizon.
Past all the silly grownups having to use so many words, words,
all the time, when they stood watching something they loved, looking about a
bit desperately for someone, someone else to share it with ; as if words or
labeling the wonder of the river or the skies or the swallows or the old leaping
fish or the sunset made it ok, and without that, it was not.
When, within the solemn, unharmed depth of friendship, with youth,
really, no words were necessary, ever.
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