Yesterday was a beautiful, crisp October day. If it wasn't for the lack of bold and earthy colors and the whiff of sea salt in the air, I would have thought I was back in the heart of the country. In a molasses style meander in my backyard, soaking up the fresh air, a memory of the days before took siege of my consciousness; without any effort I stood taller there, next to my redwood facing Golden Gate Bridge, feeling as though my heals were roots stretching deeper and deeper into the sands of time, rebirthing ceaselessly into the past as if it were so recent it was now...
I swing open the screen door like a matador flailing his red cape away from the charging bull with grandiose exuberance and I bound, the ball of one foot briefly resting on the sand stone slab, then I bound again to where both feet plop onto the sun-baked grass. The blades are sharp on my soles at first as my body presses into the Earth and gains stature, but I can feel the comforting last bits of soft moisture in the soil where my feet press the most - at the heal - just as the day is about to reach it's hottest peak. I jump a short jump again in the same spot to see if I can hear the faint squish of mud and muck beneath the grass, and I do.
From the edge of the yard I can see a playground stretching an entire continent long, the whole thing covered in inevitable grass stains. These late summer days surrounding me fill me with a confidence that this yard is my kingdom - I - the royal Queen.
I step slowly around the border of my country, making sure I never lift my feet high enough to leave the uncut grass; it slices between my toes and tickles in just the right way that makes me feel warm and more me. I feel one with the land, and that seems important for a queen.
In one corner of my kingdom lies a mighty jungle projecting high into the clouds made of silver-gray bars, 2 swings on chains, and a slide where in the ladder leading to the top lives a nest of bumble bees. They stung me once in the belly button, a few months ago, but I am still not afraid. When I have friends over to play and they get scared of one, and they always do, I reach out my hand and let the bee land on me, then I slowly walk it to the garden. I am a powerful and protecting queen, and i am one with the land and the creatures in it, which seems to me to be quite important.
At the far end of the jungle I bend my knees, dig my toes into the dirt (which has dried out completely in the time I've taken to walk the eastern perimeters), and in a giant burst of life I extend my body and my fingers protrude into the sky and my soles finally lift of the ground like tail end of a rocket. As barely as could be, the tips of my fingers touch the first monkey bar and enough magical strength is procured to get the rest of my miniature palms firmly around the shiny rod. This is a procedure I've attempted countless times and have only succeed in two times prior to now, so in celebration I bob a few times, kicking into the air in front and behind me and refirming my grip for good measure, then I allow my body to dangle like dead weight so I can get a good look on how high I've jumped. I can feel my arms loosen out of their sockets ever so slightly which is a sensation I'm fond of even though it shortens the distance between my toes and the ground and dulls the affect of my epic feat without the aid of a ladder.
Thirty seconds or so pass in my outstretched position before a rush of gravity hits me and I fear I may lose all that I have worked for, so I kick and bob once quick, then jet my right arm out to take hold of the next bar. This sudden change in space creates a great momentum behind me, and instead of reaching my left arm out to the next consecutive bar, I skip one and reach a little further. I get there easily enough, but some tiny brownish-orange flecks of god-knows-what trickle down from under my right hand and into my hair and eyelashes; the toxin nearly paralyzes my pendulum between the spread out bars. The presence of the unknown substance so heavy on my eyelids sends me into lightning speed, and without any forethought I am swinging to each metal bar before me, more little flecks dropping down like bombs each grasp of the way, and I promptly exhale when I make it to the the last bar, then the ladder to the slide.
I'm safe and no bees come out.
I dust my face and hair to remove the brazen spots before I clap my hands to get the smell of rotten medal off them, then I exhale again with a light sigh mixed in, and I climb to the top of the ladder and rest on my butt. Immediately I learn how hot the medal is today and it sends a red urgency from under my checkered skirt to pointy tips of my pig tails, so I push myself forward and head down the slide. It grabs at my skin a little bit on the way, so the motion is more bumpy than smooth, but at least I'm not on fire anymore.
Back on the grass I continue my queenly duties and patrol near the sandbox next to the shed where I used to make mud pies with my neighbor (who's secretly my boyfriend but no one but me knows). The day I got stung in the belly button he got stung on the chin, and since then he won't play in my kingdom; the mud pies have long dried out and are now just messy piles of sand that rest on the ledge of the box. They certainly don't look edible now, so I keep walking.
Around my mother's gardens - one, an vegetable patch, and the other filled with flowers - are thin wooden beams that I hop on to extend my gymnastics lessons. On the balls of my feet again I tip toe around the brimming garden, watching for large splinters dangling out, but not worrying much about the tiny splinters I'm sure to get. When I complete the tour of the vegetable patch I bound over to the other planks to finish the rotation in the opposite direction.
My swirls around this part of my kingdom kick up a happy aroma of lilac, daffodil, blackberry, dirt, and a hint of dill. The constant scents of grass and maple leaf linger in the back of my nose and the concoction, all together, gives me an indescribable sense of freedom and sweetness, and brings me to reminisce about the last summer, and the summer before that. Somehow I know right here and now, this is the happiest I could ever be.
I end my walk around my kingdom with a slight detour around my neighbors willow tree and I love the way the branches wipe over my entire body when I walk beneath them. I figure eight around my dad's newly planted trees and their surrounding mulch, but when I'm around it my nose tickles in a really uncomfortable way, so I briskly skip along, up to the deck next to the sun porch where my afternoon began.
I sit there, on a step, and cast a soft, open gaze upon my vast countryside. The sun is warming me and I feel a light vale of sweat on my forehead, but it's not heavy enough to bother me or make me wipe it away. I can hear robins chirping in the trees and bells on bicycles from a block away. I can smell a grill and kosher franks cooking from the Jewish house two doors down. I can whiff a delicate top layer of the growing corn from the field even though it's an entire bike ride down the street, I swear - I cross my heart I can smell. God is carrying the smells to me here on this, the day of all days, and everything in my kingdom is as perfect as could be. I choose now to remember this feeling forever and carry it the pit of my heart always. Someday it will be useful to recall just how precious a sunny promenade is... how precious life is.
