| The Bayou- November 1998 Sunlight dappled the parched glade, as it had for years of Texas summers. The earth ran alongside the forest, curving away from sight behind the branches, then scooping down in the center to cradle the snaking bayou. I tread through the grass, watching the way the blades parted before my feet as if anticipating my step. Turning, I called over my shoulder, "Hey Bri, hurry!" My brother Brian lumbered past wayward tendrils on either side of the path, carrying a tupperware container with an inch of water in the bottom. Smiling, he replied, "I found about a billion of 'em on the way down." He brandished the container, and I saw several dozen dewberries floating in the water. "C'mon, I can see tons in the grass down here..." I knelt among the thorns and weeds and began plucking the berries from their stems, their weak scaly-bubble surfaces resisting until one burst on my fingers, baptizing them in fuchsia. Their dusty tang greeted my tongue when I licked my fingers. The next one I chose stuck to the saliva on my skin; within minutes all my fingers looked like cherries. Brian joined me, just as a breeze cooled my face and rustled the uppermost leaves of the trees. The stalks that crushed under my feet smelled like the desert; grass seeds tickled my ankles. Struggling to stay balanced on the slope, I gazed down across the bayou to where the stream tumbled between the banks. Over the summer months, the water melted away until the bayou trickled six inches deep. The current grazed along the muddy bottom, sibilant in the leaves as it went, flowing around a bend in the stream and vanishing from sight. The water flowed around a sunning turtle, around rocks, around clumps of tiny white blossoms that floated atop it, their roots buried deep in the mud. I could hear the water threading between them. Something seemed to sparkle in this place- shimmer among the grass. Brian's voice echoed down the crevice, and a mockingbird shrilled in reply. I tilted my head, feeling the wind tickle my eyelashes. The scene broke when I saw a tire lying on the edge of the bank further down the bayou, heaped with mud and grass. Frowning, I discarded the berries in my hands and tumbled down the incline to investigate. Though strong enough to stir leaves, the current couldn't move the tire, nor the pile of rusted cans I discovered within the tire's ring. Coming closer, I realized the glitter I'd noticed was three beer bottles, their labels rotted away, the weeds climbing over them. The turtle sunned on a crushed plastic orange juice jug. I could smell the mixture of dirt and hot rotting plastic- it invaded my mouth, stung the back of my tongue, and soured the berry flavor until I wanted to spit. There was a flash of brilliance, and then a bird swooped into the air from where it hid in the tallest grass, coasting over my head like wind-blown silk. The bird rebuked me with its silence as it came to rest on another beer bottle coated in slime further down the bayou. The beauty surrounding me felt tainted. Yet the earth, weeds, and blossoms accepted these aliens, winding them into their embrace and saying nothing. Their scents mingled, reminding me of a fish tank- the compromise between mildewing glass and swamp life. Sunbeams beat on my hair, reminding me that Brian waited at the crest of the banks and carried on with his berry-picking. Crouching down, the tops of the weeds rasped against my hands as I fought for balance on the slope. I clambered back upwards, heading for home, destined to find a trash bag. |