Being Seven
They walk ahead of me - she on long, agile legs and he on short, bony ones. He struggles to keep up, yelling after her. Alice’s legs seem to grow an inch a week, but looking at her father it’s no surprise. She stops, waiting for him, and every time she turns, the light glances her profile and she looks like a photograph. Click, I say in my mind.
She is a photogenic child, with intense eyes and a style all her own. She always looks like she is posing for a catalog, showing off the newest fashion trend - the one that everyone thinks is weird at first but picks up eventually. Every morning, Alice emerges from her room dressed in odd combinations, which she pulls off with the confidence and innocence of a kid. Her mother prays every day she will keep it, at least the confidence. Maybe she’ll have enough fortitude to withstand the inevitable pre-teen pressure.
Aidan’s knees are bruised, and he doesn’t remember how they got that way. What happened?, I ask. He shrugs. Being a seven-year-old every day. That’s what happened, of course. I remember the bruises, the scrapes, the dozens of mosquito bites every summer. We used to count them to see who had the most. Summer in the Delta did a number on our bodies, and I still have clusters of freckles on my shoulders and a scar on my left knee to show for it. Every time I tell the boys to be careful, to watch out, don’t fall - I close my eyes and picture that skinned-up, sunburned softball player, careening down the hill on a bike with her hands in the air. I turned out fine, and so will they.
The two of them bound over logs and crunch through leaves, wielding their walking sticks like serious adventurers. The afternoon sun is like medicine in January, warming my face and my outlook. It will all be okay, I think, every time I walk in the woods. My shoulders loosen as I watch Aidan and Alice, knowing this little path beside our little creek feels big and important to them. The distance we’ve walked feels far, though I can still see our house through the bare trees. The ordinary gray rock she holds is a treasure worth keeping. I know it because I remember it: sneaking up through the neighbor’s property to the cemetery, packing a picnic lunch to end our journey. Tiptoeing through the brush, pretending we were on a secret mission. Building hideouts and clubhouses. Collecting rocks, buckeyes, treasures of all sorts. To seven-year-old me, it was the grandest adventure.
These are the things I remember, because they mattered. The essential stuff of childhood. I watch Aidan and Alice climb down into the dry creek bed and across to the other side. Will they remember this walk? I hope so. I hope they come back to this little path someday, together. I hope they stand by the creek and chuckle, wondering how it ever felt so grand.
