A memory from my childhood: Behind the blackberry bushes in the back yard, hidden from the house and prying adult eyes, is a large gray rock. It stands higher than my head and is mostly covered by blackberry vines. I made a tunnel through the vines, a secret thorny tunnel impassable by adults, which leads to the back of the rock. The back of the rock is wide and smooth and more massive than my father. It has a shelf halfway up just long and wide enough for me to lay full length upon. Here I am completely hidden by blackberry vines, surrounded by thrumming bees, protected by thorns.

I press my stomach down on the cool surface, and fling my arms above my head. I spread my fingers and push my hands down, flat and hard, to feel the tickling of tiny grit on my palms. I push my nose down, I squash it flat, and I sniff deep of that dusty, rocky smell. The blackberry vines gently brush the backs of my bare sunburnt legs.

I am hidden, safe. I am silent. I lay my ear against the face of the rock shelf, sealing out all outside noise. I listen to the rock’s voice. It sings like the hollow boom of a large drum beat very softly. It hisses and burbles as it breathes. I am soothed to find a rhythm so like mine.

excerpt from Eating Mythos Soup, ©2000 Kim Pearson

 

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