the hill

There was a little hill I used to climb when I wanted to get lost so no one could find me. The blue sky stretched endlessly above me and I would lay there, hidden in the long green grass as I watched the changing shapes of the clouds, squinting my eyes in varying degrees to make the glare of the sunshine change colors and ray length; like my own personal kaleidoscope.

I would roll onto my stomach, smelling the dirt and the green of growing things and I would study the silken petals of a buttercup. I would place my head on folded arms and watch fat bumble bees, legs laden with thick pods of pollen, drunkenly stumble between flowers and in curiosity, would pull open a purple clover to chew on the sweet bulb at the base of each tiny sheath.

Grasshoppers would occasionally hop in and out of my vision, busy doing nothing, before leaping away into the vastness of their world and leaving mine behind. I would watch ants march past me making nonsense patterns and if I was lucky, a magical ladybug would come visit me before she had to fly home to her children and tend her burning house.

I would take a perfect blade of well chosen grass, pluck it from its base and adjust it between my thumbs. I would practice pursing my lips, blowing air past it, like the reed on a flute, adjusting the pressure and tension to change the noise. It provided endless amusement on long summer days.

I would make my way to a blackberry patch and methodically eat my way through various sections until I was satiated and then use a corner of my t-shirt to carry and secure a few more cups of ripe berries for later. I would end up with a few scratches across my forearms or legs, leaving tiny wounds and beads of blood, clear evidence proving my fearlessness.

I made my way through the darkest jungles or over the highest mountains. Fording dangerous screes and across sudden landslides, crossing rivers swollen in flash floods. I lived a thousand adventures every day because every day had a thousand hours. In my endless oasis of waving grass and hidden valleys, I lived in the moment because it was all I had. The simplicity of childhood is a perfect summer morning.

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2 Responses to the hill

  1. I love this. So simple and sweet, takes me back to childhood forgotten. It’s a shame we forget the simple things that mKe life interesting. Thank you for writing this, my favorite yet.

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