Little girls who love frogs, and rain, and Little Women, all at the same time are an odd sort of little girl. They stay up late, and love to watch I love Lucy and China Beach with their mothers. They hate going to Grandma's house, because Grandma's house is boring, but they love Grandma's backyard. Grandma's backyard filled with hidden paths and hidden corners and hidden treasures. Hidden nests and hidden neighbors.
Summertime sap filling her hair and coating her skin; a sticky, tacky splotching of dark gray and black as the dirt starts to cling to knees and elbows and the palms of hands. Grass stains turning yellow, and the salty green taste of tall grass stems and the vaguely sugary liquid from maple tree helicopters stuck on her tongue.
Raspberry brambles never cut her tiny feet, though she spent hours wading through the canes with a big, turquoise, plastic bowl. Picking berry by berry, blowing away the tiny insects and chaff from the ruby bubbles; leaving the not-quite-red-but-more-pink-than-red and almost-red-but-can-still-get-redder-because-these-aren't-quite-sweet-enough berries behind. The poison ivy kissed her legs, as did the poison oak, but neither left a mark. Perhaps they saw the alabaster legs already marred by bicycle accidents and tree-climbing scrapes and decided to let her skin forgive those incidents first. Perhaps she's just a very lucky girl to never feel that itchy scratchy reddened annoyance.
This raspberry-brave little girl with the huge heart climbed up through lilac branches; the faded, browned blossoms cascading down around her. She grasped for the branches in her huge, ancient hedge that grew higher than she'd ever seen a lilac grow. Her hedge. Her lilacs. The scent of which reminded her of summer and sun and home and wind and the lawn and the sprinkler all at once. Climbing up and up, up and out, she found something incredible. A little brown bundle of sticks and straw, grass and twigs. A little brown bundle with one little blue feather, and three little mouths. Little wide-open mouths, with little wormy tongues and little baby feathers poking through on their little baby bodies. This little girl had heard stories of those big blue screaming mothers flying down to defend their little baby babies, and she was very, very wary.
She was so young, she didn't know much about little baby birds. She stared at the little babies. She looked into their mouths, and watched them wiggle and wiggle. She touched their goose-bumpy bodies with a very tiny finger, a finger that has stayed very tiny even as the years have made the girl grow into a woman. She felt them move, and felt their little tiny wings flap needlessly in their little baby nest.
She climbed down, slowly, not to shake the nest, and went hunting. Little worms, small beetles, mosquitoes she'd found on her arms and legs, all gathered into her hot little palm. She climbed up again, so quietly, so gently, so one-handedly as to not get more squishy-buggy than usual. Little open mouths greeting her, little feathers still peaking through on little baby bodies. She was surprised by what soon joined her at that little bundle of sticks and baby birds. A big, blue-black-and-white bird. Mama Jay. Of the same blue jays that she'd heard so many stories about. A big, blue-black-and-white bird had flown right down on top of her babies, and had willingly bypassed this little girl. This little girl was face to face with the mother of these little tiny, pink, pin-feathery, big-mouthed little babies, and Mama Jay didn't seem to mind. This little girl was shocked, and completely in awe.
Little girls who pick up toads and collect rocks and feathers and love Dragonsong are very bold. These little girls will raise their hand with the answer to every question, and will talk to everyone like an adult. These little girls aren't afraid of a big blue-and-black-and-white bird in front of them. These little girls ignore the old wives' tale about little birds being abandoned by their mothers, as this mother obviously came back. This little girl looked right at that big blue-and-black-and-white bird, and watched her. This little girl loved every minute she spent watching this Mama Jay big blue-and-black-and-white bird watch her, and hold her little babies to her breast. And with every second thought screaming in her ear, she reached out her little hand, and touched that big bird. And she was damn scared. And that big bird who seemed so big became so much smaller underneath the little tiny fingers on the little tiny hand of that little girl up in the hedges. That big blue-and-black-and-white bird sat there, and was silent. No screams, no jay-calls. She sat with her little tiny babies and let this little girl with the little tiny fingers become a part of the nest. Feeling feather after feather upon feather after feather on a wing. The little girl began to climb down, knowing not to push her unexpected welcome.
Little birds grow much faster than little girls. Though after falling from nests and floundering through the leaf litter, we all are very much the same. Very much the same.
Summertime sap filling her hair and coating her skin; a sticky, tacky splotching of dark gray and black as the dirt starts to cling to knees and elbows and the palms of hands. Grass stains turning yellow, and the salty green taste of tall grass stems and the vaguely sugary liquid from maple tree helicopters stuck on her tongue.
Raspberry brambles never cut her tiny feet, though she spent hours wading through the canes with a big, turquoise, plastic bowl. Picking berry by berry, blowing away the tiny insects and chaff from the ruby bubbles; leaving the not-quite-red-but-more-pink-than-red and almost-red-but-can-still-get-redder-because-these-aren't-quite-sweet-enough berries behind. The poison ivy kissed her legs, as did the poison oak, but neither left a mark. Perhaps they saw the alabaster legs already marred by bicycle accidents and tree-climbing scrapes and decided to let her skin forgive those incidents first. Perhaps she's just a very lucky girl to never feel that itchy scratchy reddened annoyance.
This raspberry-brave little girl with the huge heart climbed up through lilac branches; the faded, browned blossoms cascading down around her. She grasped for the branches in her huge, ancient hedge that grew higher than she'd ever seen a lilac grow. Her hedge. Her lilacs. The scent of which reminded her of summer and sun and home and wind and the lawn and the sprinkler all at once. Climbing up and up, up and out, she found something incredible. A little brown bundle of sticks and straw, grass and twigs. A little brown bundle with one little blue feather, and three little mouths. Little wide-open mouths, with little wormy tongues and little baby feathers poking through on their little baby bodies. This little girl had heard stories of those big blue screaming mothers flying down to defend their little baby babies, and she was very, very wary.
She was so young, she didn't know much about little baby birds. She stared at the little babies. She looked into their mouths, and watched them wiggle and wiggle. She touched their goose-bumpy bodies with a very tiny finger, a finger that has stayed very tiny even as the years have made the girl grow into a woman. She felt them move, and felt their little tiny wings flap needlessly in their little baby nest.
She climbed down, slowly, not to shake the nest, and went hunting. Little worms, small beetles, mosquitoes she'd found on her arms and legs, all gathered into her hot little palm. She climbed up again, so quietly, so gently, so one-handedly as to not get more squishy-buggy than usual. Little open mouths greeting her, little feathers still peaking through on little baby bodies. She was surprised by what soon joined her at that little bundle of sticks and baby birds. A big, blue-black-and-white bird. Mama Jay. Of the same blue jays that she'd heard so many stories about. A big, blue-black-and-white bird had flown right down on top of her babies, and had willingly bypassed this little girl. This little girl was face to face with the mother of these little tiny, pink, pin-feathery, big-mouthed little babies, and Mama Jay didn't seem to mind. This little girl was shocked, and completely in awe.
Little girls who pick up toads and collect rocks and feathers and love Dragonsong are very bold. These little girls will raise their hand with the answer to every question, and will talk to everyone like an adult. These little girls aren't afraid of a big blue-and-black-and-white bird in front of them. These little girls ignore the old wives' tale about little birds being abandoned by their mothers, as this mother obviously came back. This little girl looked right at that big blue-and-black-and-white bird, and watched her. This little girl loved every minute she spent watching this Mama Jay big blue-and-black-and-white bird watch her, and hold her little babies to her breast. And with every second thought screaming in her ear, she reached out her little hand, and touched that big bird. And she was damn scared. And that big bird who seemed so big became so much smaller underneath the little tiny fingers on the little tiny hand of that little girl up in the hedges. That big blue-and-black-and-white bird sat there, and was silent. No screams, no jay-calls. She sat with her little tiny babies and let this little girl with the little tiny fingers become a part of the nest. Feeling feather after feather upon feather after feather on a wing. The little girl began to climb down, knowing not to push her unexpected welcome.
Little birds grow much faster than little girls. Though after falling from nests and floundering through the leaf litter, we all are very much the same. Very much the same.
What's your favorite summer memory, friends? ♥
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You should tell more stories. You have a bit of magic to your telling.