I lay there, with the coastal breeze against my warm skin. I feel a slight chill as it hits the beads of sweat gathered under my knees and at my forehead. The air is sweet. Wet and sweet. I feel the dampness of my humidity-soaked blouse, my greasy hair swept across the nape of my neck, the way my sandals push too hard into my arch, the tightness of my mid-rise jeans.
Looking into the treetops, through the winding branches. The green leaves, moist and sticky. Through the pink and white feathery flowers. Into the light blue, cloudless sky.
I listen to the wind move through the leaves. Shivering, undulating, spraying the air with moisture. The sound of the sun shining and the clouds expanding. Of the tree branches creaking and their leaves humming. Of the ground contracting and the grass whispering.
The sound of silence.
In the city you don’t get to have these moments. The time to lay beneath a persian silk tree and stare and think — and not think — and daydream and remember picking the bipinnate leaves from the very same tree that grows outside your childhood home some three thousand miles away. The feeling of running your thumb and forefinger along the stem and plucking each individual leaf part from its place.
I would love to set aside ten minutes every day to breathe. To think about nothing and to talk to no one. To be outside, to stare into the sky and not do anything. Just breath. Why does that seem so unattainable?
If we wanted to go to school we had to catch the bus from the end of our dirt road. Half a mile in each direction. Northern California gets hot. Dry and hot. The grasses are brown before easter and the water holes dry up before it’s warm enough to swim. Ranches are sparse. Lots of open land for livestock. There are huge, beautiful, aging oak trees dripping with mistletoe to provide the occasional respite but the earth is parched and the air is dry.
It was the beginning of June and the last week of school. The end of fourth grade for me and the end of third grade for my brother. The bus skittered across the gravel and came to a stop.
“Bye,” I shouted to my friends. My brother was running up the aisle.
“Don’t jump, goddamnit. I am sick of warning you,” The driver yelled after my brother, who had taken all three steps in one fell swoop and was already out of earshot.
“Stop it-uhhhhh!” I said upon catching up to him. Because that’s what you say to your little brother when you’re tired and cranky and older than him and he is creating a cloud of dust all around you.
“You stop,” he countered.
“I’m not even doing anything. Gawwwwwd,” I said.
With one particularly well-aimed kick, he overturned a large stone. Curled underneath was a baby sharp-tailed snake. Not more than six inches. Red, thin, fast but harmless.
“Watch out,” I screamed, pushing my little brother aside. I stomped once. It was quick and well aimed. The snake was sliced in half, both sections writhing helplessly. The red blood oozed slowly out of it’s body, creating two thick, dark muddy patches in the white dust.
“I’m sorry,” I said. Devastated and embarrassed. I loved snakes. We spent every summer hunting gophers, racers and garters.
He was quiet. We stood there, staring at the dying reptile as tears streamed down my face.
When the snake stopped moving, my brother silently retrieved the round, grey stone and placed it over its still body.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
We walked silently the rest of the way home. No more kicking of rocks, or rolling of eyes.
“It’s okay,” he said when we were finally home. “you didn’t mean to. You were just scared.”