I remember
the dusty taste of summer,
prickly heat
dry twigs
and curling fingers of fern
twisted in my hair
and once
a bumble-bee
wrapped in a curl at the base of my neck
untangled
by the gentle,
brave hands of my mother
[How heroic, our parents seemed to us once]
I remember
furtive harvest
of raspberries,
huckleberries,
salmon berries,
blackberries,
from neighbour's yards,
from patches along the slow trickling creek at the bottom of the park
from the paths through the university gardens
I remember
teeth cracking when my head hit the river bottom,
the gardens we collected under fingernails
(that our mothers looked at with horror,
sent us to scrub down the drain)
I remember skinned knees,
monkey bar callouses ,
thistle ****** on my big toe,
broken glass
ground into my heel
- father pried out as I howled, fox-throated and wild-eyed
I remember
birds nest cut out of my hair,
the way my father pulled it back into tight braids after that,
with promises to keep it tame
-childhood defiance; letting it curl wild
down my neck
around my ears:
I wanted birds to feel safe near me.
I remember
popsicles melting down arms
fingers stuck together,
chewing the sticks
until they splinter in our mouths,
the familiar taste of that soggy wood.
I remember the boys
teasing beside the river
trying to scare me
with beetles,
crickets
loud mouthed frogs,
and finally a snake
that I wore in my hair till it was time to hike back
I remember
how they teased me with love songs after that;
taunted me,
with the softness I rebelled against.
I remember
how big the sky seemed in those days
how close,
how attainable
how big and bright
the milky way seemed
stretched out above the cabin porch.
I remember
how everything grew wild
and rambling
during those long,
hot,
August days
[especially us children]