by Alma B. Hall
Once upon a time, I didn’t mind being on a crowded beach near La Honda in just a sweatshirt and underwear. Once upon a time, I was four, and all I wanted was to find a very big shell, one like the shiny one my teacher had on the bathroom shelf that you could put against your ear and hear the ocean. Once upon a time, there was nothing I couldn’t do, or wouldn’t have. The universe was so big, and I was so overwhelmed by everything, wishing I could drag everything home and keep it under my bed so I could look at it on rainy days. Like I had made all of it, like I was the mother of the waves, and the sand crabs, and the flip flops forgotten in the dunes, and beach umbrellas, and the clouds so white and thick they looked like finger paintings of the angels. Once upon a time, it didn’t matter if I still had sand in my underwear when it was time for bed, because my mother never forgot to have clean pajamas for me, even if they were passed down form my cousins in Spain. Once upon a time, the sound of the waves still whooshing around in my little head was enough to drown out any whisperings of the boogey man. Once upon a time, we ran as fast as we could down paths of the town rose garden, even though we knew we weren’t allowed to. Once upon a time, I didn’t have to bend my head to smell each flower. I’d pick a bud without the stem, rolling it between my fingers, the petals cool and soft like my mother’s dress. Wanting to cry, because it was starting to wilt, because I couldn’t somehow glue it to the bush again. Once upon a time, we’d lie down at the top of hill and let ourselves go, staining our white dresses in the grass. Once upon a time, we stepped as close as we could to the edge of the fountains, watching the black and orange coy circle the lily pads, reaching out to touch them. I wanted to live there like they did, in my own watery palace among the lilies. Once upon a time, sitting in a fancy patio chair in the garden with the grown ups, sipping my cup of lemonade, I’d stick my pinky out like my mother did, imagining it was cabernet or chardonnay or merlot, whatever my mom said she was drinking. I imagined filling my nose with that prickly fruit smell, the one that seemed to wring me out like a sponge. Once upon a time, a big yellow and black spider lived in the blackberry bush by the creek. Sometimes, I said hello and how’re you doing, because it didn’t seem to mind being talked to once in a while. Once upon a time, we stripped ourselves down to nothing and stepped in, not caring that the cold water only came up to our hips. Once upon a time, I was small enough to walk through the pipeline beneath the road standing up straight. I held my breath, because, after all, the road could collapse; you never knew. Once upon a time, the algae floated through the water like so many brilliant spirits, blooming from the rocks, gently pulled away with each passing second. It would collect between my toes, held in place beneath the surface of the water, trapped, still dancing. If I lifted it out, I would put it right back in; it wasn’t the same, soggy and flat in my hands. Once upon a time, we sat with our feet in the water, rolling the buckeyes we’d found around in our hands, wondering what they looked like on the inside. Once upon a time, we’d paint each other’s faces with blackberry juice. We searched each berry to make sure an earwig had not made it it’s home, screaming and sputtering if we thought we’d eaten one. Once upon a time, the creek wound forever through the wood behind our houses, never anticipating the ocean at its end. Once upon a time, the days passed too slowly, and we waited. Once upon a time, we built forts during recess, one for the girls and one for the boys. Once upon a time, algebra was a force to be reckoned with. Once upon a time, the spots of red dirt on our uniforms only mattered to our mothers. Once upon a time, he ran so fast, and I could only watch in wonder. Once upon a time, we still drank Pepsi and Hawaiian Punch at parties. We’d share the armchairs and laugh and sing and hug, wondering if this was really what the grown ups did. Once upon a time, we all fit on the trampoline, and no one fell off. I’d fly up like I never could anywhere else, taking off my coat and my sweater so I was in nothing but a tank top and shorts, warming up from the inside out. Once upon a time, I fell in love with nighttime, took the beckoning hands of the stars and let myself go up, up, up, until I was everywhere, tiny, shimmering bits of a me I would never piece together again, that I had willingly given to a breathless moment I never wanted to leave, that would follow in my wake forever. Once upon a time, I sat in the darkness of my room, and I remembered the beach near La Honda, how clouds, like waves, looked thick enough to carry me away and never bring me back. I remembered the way the sun reflected through my mother’s wine glass, over the velvet surface of the water in the fountain, on the backs of the fish, winked at me from beneath the surface. I remembered the cold of the metal as I crept through the pipeline, the softness of the algae in my fingers, the splash of the buckeye as I dropped it in the water and watched it bob out of sight. I remembered how my heart leapt with me on that trampoline; how no matter how many times I landed I always jumped again. Alma is a senior in high school and has been writing non-stop since the fourth grade. She has written as the high school columnist for her local paper, The Healdsburg Tribune, as well as for her school paper. At this point, her only ambition is to be a freshman in college and to keep writing as much as possible. She lives in Sonoma County, California. HOME |