Warm Summer Day

This week’s Red Writing Hood Challenge is to look at one of two photos and write based upon whichever one inspired us.  We were either to come up with a fictional account or recapture a childhood memory.

This is the picture I chose to go with.  Just look at the pure joy and excitement on that little one’s face!  You can almost hear him squeal with delight!

I decided to write about a snapshot memory.  The years have worn away so much of this memory that I can’t tell you why we were there or even who I was with, entirely.  I know my siblings were there and some of my friends.  I’m not even sure how old I was, though I was at least eleven. Memories are funny that way.  I can remember speaking to a boy whose face is just a blurry ball above his equally fuzzy body.  I remember that he was wearing khaki shorts and Vans, though. Oh and white socks.  I think my childhood best friend was there, but I’m not sure.  I know we were at Gunpowder Falls State Park, too, though I couldn’t tell you exactly where and I doubt I could find the spot again if I wanted to.

My memory of that day is like that of an old dream; time has chewed away the edges until what’s left is mostly obscure flashes, like this one:

It’s a warm summer afternoon, though my mother says it isn’t really hot enough for swimming.  Nonsense!  All of us are in the water.  It is shockingly, achingly cold.  The kind of cold that burns before numbing my skin and elicits great, sputtering gasps from me.  I love it.  I open my eyes under the water.  As my cheeks lose their feeling, I note how the light plays beautifully across the rocks at the bottom of the river.  There are little plants growing between the pebbles.  The algae looks like a swaying green and yellow carpet.  I swear, I can feel every hair follicle reacting to the chilly water so I surface.  The air is filled with the sounds of whoops and squeals of delight.  The sunlight sifts through the branches overhead, mottling our skin with shadows.  Every tendril of breeze against my skin raises goose-bumps and my mother asked me over and over again if I am SURE I’m not cold.  Pay no attention to the color of my lips, Mom, I’m FINE!

I am a mighty salmon, except I’m swimming the wrong way.  Over and over again, I float carefully between two rocks and ride the water right over the miniature fall.  If I don’t do it just right, my belly scrapes the smooth rocks underneath the swell of the water.  Salmon are ugly, I think.  I decide to be an otter and go over the fall on my back, daring my brother to give it a try.  I never tell anyone about my imaginary change of species.  I’m almost old enough that admitting this would be humiliating.  Privately, I change again.  I’m a river sprite with glorious hair and special powers to make things grow.  I imagine what it would be like to live here, under the water, in a different world.