The Valley
remembering at 6:51 p.m. on 2003-07-28
Her dog is barking wildly. Sharp, ear piercing yelps of protest, circling in prances of aggravation around the boys.
I can hear her crying violently beneath the sleeping bag, as her brothers sit on top of her, laughing wildly.
I back against the corner, uneasy and unsure.
"Adam get off of me, I can't breathe, I can't breathe!!" The muffled cries pleaded.
Aaron lets go of his grip on her head, and stands back. His thin boyish body, nothing more than a curved shadow against the last searing breaths the sun can exhale before it hits the horizon. It's moody brightness filtering through the gauzy curtains.
"Get off her, she's just going to cry like a little bitch," He says with a muffled sarcasm.
Adam, graceful and more sculpted than his older brother, stands up. His visage like a predator, with a wild, premeditated grin.
She emerges from the coffin-like sleeping bag and wails sharply, her worlds tangled with her cries.
Her hair is tangled in her face. Long willowy strands of brown, smeared with red, swollen tears.
The brothers saunter into the kitchen in a lazy chatter, and I can hear the snap of a pop can opening. I turn to her, on my knees now at her side.
Neither of us say anything.
"Want to go down to the Valley?" I say softly. My words wanting to apologize for doing nothing, yet afraid to strip her of this pride she carries.
She nods. And we slip out the front door, closing it as if not to wake the dragons again.
It was a lush strip of natural purity, left as a scrap between two housing areas. Wildly dense with trees, and low plant-life, its uneven terrain became a torrent of imagination. A canvas for us to create upon, we spent so many hours here.
This was her hiding place. And I knew it.
"Watch out for the nettles, you don't want them to sting you..." she said, her voice serious and concerned.
"Which ones are nettles?"
She stops, her face searching and thoughtful. She gently caresses the plants, until she finds one, pointing out the patterns and color...
I watch her in a kind of reverence. Beautiful, serious...her collection of pride and survival, leaves me
reaching out my hand, to touch the tips of her regality.
The faint tinkering of her dog's tags, making his way down, and into the brush, cause me to turn and look. She continues on her way down the primitive path she had beaten.
It's a lonely sound...I know the hands that touch her, and I know the valley can only hide her for so long.
never was � never will be
