Memory

13 Sep

When I was a little girl, we grew a lot of our own food. We were poor and my parents were hippies.

One late spring when I was five years old, we spent the afternoon planting. My father had already cultivated the dirt and fertilized it. He showed us how to use a string to make straight rows. I liked planting corn best, because the growing vitamins turned it pink. Corn and potatoes went at the top of the garden and the viney things were at the bottom. It was balmy and calmy—no one was fighting or crying or doing anything wrong. The sun was just setting was we trudged back up to the horrible farmhouse we lived in. And all of a sudden, the bottom just fell out. It was raining something fierce when just a moment ago there was orange light sifting through the weird trees that grew in the sideyard. And my sister and I ran for the door, shrieking with laughter and singing, “It’s raining, it’s pouring…” Our dusty little feet took us home. I don’t remember what happened after that.

If I could live one day over again, I suppose it’d be that one.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: