This morning I released the dogs to the back yard, inhaling the damp spring air. The memory of going shopping every September with my mom in the fall rains in Rochester returned: moist scented air, the sounds of traffic on the gloomy streets, the city a world of excitement for me, let alone the prospect of buying new clothes and school shoes together, her slender hand reaching for mine at the busy corners. I recall the same smells sitting in the stuffy classroom near one of the tall wooden windows, open for ventilation,and the chirping of birds loving the rain delighting my ears.
The world was in order: fall, school shopping, my brightness being contained again in the world of learning, the days ordered after the chaos of summer. The teacher's voice doesn't play in the memory; I am in my own friendly universe that brought me love, food, comfort, and an infinite amount of learning to absorb: a world without war, sickness or death.
I had not yet managed to climb up onto the back of the big armchair in our living room to pull the tallest book from the shelf, the one with the four-letter word: LIFE. It held the pictures of soldiers and bodies and terrorized eyes. But soon I would sound out those words: WORLD WAR. I would turn the pages, staring at the strange pictures, and try to read more words. Then Mother would discover me, scold me, and shut the book. But it was too late. My young mind had suddenly grasped that people kill each other and posed a question I have yet to solve: why?
Today the dogs will demand I walk with them and throw the ball, even in the light rain. I will inhale the exquisite March air full of promise, enjoying their company and taking delight in the birdsong. I am at once an aging woman and an innocent child. I am protected, free, fed and loved, and continuing to pull books off the shelf for answers to a very puzzling world.
1 comment:
Star, Finally posting a comment after rereading probably more than a month later. I have wondered if the photo was of you or a granddaughter. I feel the innocence of your young self and it brings to mind my granddaughter ; the realities we wish to hide from her. Her spirit is raw,open, adventurous and passionate yet tender and fragile. It feels unthinkable that she should need to contemplate such things as war, that even adults like yourself and I cannot comprehend. She, like you, when a child, walks through bright days filled with love, excitement, protection and order.
I love the way old and new, now and then mingle in this piece.....Radha
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