Lonnie on Dirt

Sunlight hit the dirt in a way I'd never seen before. The patches that were still coarse and rough suddenly looked so inviting. The soaked parts on the banks of the creek now glistened like a thousand stars on a mulchy brown night sky. From where I sat, in the mossy shade of overgrown branches, the dirt looked like heaven on earth. To wallow in it, that muck, was a thought that tickled me. Letting the sun cast its rays down on my wet skin, baking the water droplets still on my body; temptation dangling on a string before me.

My feet, which I had kicked out in front of me, were covered in the dirt. There, it returned to its usual disposition. It ceased to be this perfect bliss product and retreated to its unremarkable identity. Just dirt once again. Was it thanks to the contrast my pale skin provided or caused by the cool shade I sat in?

I remember thinking that I should check the time. I remember I’d been obsessed lately with the thought that the sun is in the same place at the same time each day. I had a watch, an old and sentimental one, that I had tossed off with my shirt upon our arrival at the creek. Our discarded clothes lay in piles by the fence, a few dozen feet from me. I never went for it. I remember thinking if I got up I’d never see the dirt look like that again.

It’s always the things you want to see again that elude you. Tradition seems allergic to desire. Each year, on the first day of summer, or at least the first day that felt like summer, we’d all go down to the creek. We’d celebrate the warmth and the return of the bright blue sky, unsheathed from the covering of gloomy gray that the clouds had provided for months. I’d never liked our tradition all that much. At least not as much as any of the others. Typically, I’d hate to be dirty and I’d hate to sit half naked and all soaking wet so naturally I never really liked to go to the creek.

The heat crept into my skin, it seemed unnatural so early into the year. It was a heat that would embed itself in the coming months and intensify. I don’t mean to sound so cynical about something so absolute as the weather but I’ve always preferred the more mild midrange of temperatures around sixty-five degrees.

As a little kid I would pretend to be an explorer when the weather was hot. I’d pretend that the heavy heat of the jungle was the source of all the sticky sweat on my skin. I’d navigate my back yard and its surrounding brush like a conquistador. Ever-eager as if the Fountain of Youth or the Holy Grail lay right around the corner.

Water sprayed up onto the banks, turning it to mud as they splashed. After some time of guessing, I closed my eyes and rested my head against the tree.

“Lonnie!”

Josie stared with her eyes only just barely making it above the banks of the creek. If I could, I would get a nice little frame for how she looked in that moment and keep it on my nightstand. I wish the way the world felt at that moment could be kept in a little box that I could carry with me. The box would unfold from the simple beauty of the world to present the eager desire to stand and meet my friends and their fun.

I’d seen those eyes of hers so many times and I’d seen them with so many looks but this one was new. I couldn’t quite place the emotion. At a loss, I just stared back. My head rested on the tree behind me and I sat still. Gently, I ran my hands through the soft dirt beneath me. It fell through the gaps in my fingers and I clenched my fist tight.

I wondered if she saw the dirt the same way I did. At least in that moment. Did the sun hit it just right from her angle like it did from mine? Maybe it hit the dirt in a completely different way from where she was standing. Completely different and almost definitely still as entrancing.

“Lonnie,” She called out again.

“Come back over here!” I didn’t answer. There was a hidden desperation in her voice that only my ears were tuned to. A beckoning, a soft plea and a little beg to return me to the murky creek water. I noticed it, I heard it, I registered it but it didn’t move me.

Instead I wondered about her view of the dirt.

What could it possibly look like for her and did she see it? Did she notice the way the sun changed how it looked?

I remember thinking all that but before I knew it I was on my feet and coming toward her. It was habitual, I was chained to her wants and tottering.

The creek was a miasma of nostalgic blurs. Years past were blended into the sediment on the bank. It was lyric and guiding in the same way her voice was and tradition tends to be. How often do we do things before they’re deemed to be tradition?

The nostalgic feeling only got stronger the closer I got but through it all I could only see her. She stood in nearly calf-high water and smiled this toothy grin that grew with each step I took. I moved to see it grow.

Each step took me closer to her and further into the muck. Now the ground was much wetter than my feet and the dirt and mud entombed my bare toes. The creek water became more appealing by the second as the beautiful summertime dirt coated me. It needed to be washed off as soon as I was able.

Without realizing, I’d looked away from Josie and down to my feet. She laughed, noticing how uncomfortable I must've looked, and I snapped back up to see her. As I stepped into the creek she laughed, a song on the warm thick air.

There was a realization then, I remember it well. I started to notice just how much I thought of her. It seemed like everything brought me right back. The dripping of the bathroom faucet, incessant and trivial, should not remind me of anything except my need to turn the knob all the way next time. Instead, the dripping is a direct line to memories of rainfall on our umbrellas at the bus stop and the small shiny droplets left on her legs after swimming. Now those droplets were right before my eyes and it must’ve been, as long as I’m remembering right, some sort of peace to know that reminders can go both ways. She stood there right in front of me and I sat thinking of my bathroom faucet!

“About time.” She said between laughs. I didn't answer, I threw her a look but there were no words. I simply waded deeper, about up to my knees, and drifted closer to her.

“They’re already down by the bend.” She added, if I remember right. I wasn’t really listening then. I hope I wasn’t staring but I can’t remember blinking while I looked at her. Her long black hair shone in the sun and I followed it down her side to her waist as it was submerged in the water. She moved through the creek like she was born to it. It was effortless and angelic. I tried to follow suit, caught in her undertow and swept away.

She danced through the creek with flowing strokes and light steps, leading me to the bend a little ways down from where we entered. At the bend, under a half buried log, we’d stuck this old wooden box. In the summer we each brought something to leave in the box before winter shrouds it in ice and snow. Last year I left a toy from when I was younger. I sold the rest of them that November so it was the last one. I didn’t really want to see it again. I felt bad for selling all of it’s friends. It had painted on and fading black eyes that would probably look at me like it knew what I did.

Josie left a hair clip. A pink one with a flower. She’d worn it all her life and I’d seen it so many more times than I could try and count. I started noticing when she would've worn it. Like if she wore an outfit that I’d seen it with before or when she bought something new that shared that same hue of pink. I imagined it, the pink rods poking through her hair and the flower sticking out of the side of her head. It became second nature, even when she wasn't wearing it she had it on. Looking at her back as we trudged through the grassy sludge on the floor of the creek, I swear I could see a little pink among her black strands.

From where we were in the creek, if I looked just right so I could see between the winding branches of all the trees, the houses of the neighborhood came clearly into view. I could see Rina McClaine’s white house with black shutters and Cole Bertrand’s green one-story which was next to Kiera’s. If I’d strained to see hers too I probably could've. It was yellow and I wanted to have a house just like it one day. They would come down to the creek soon enough, Rina for the blooming flowers and Cole to splash around with Lane. They loved it here and if it were any morning other than Sunday it would've been us meeting them.

“They found that log from last year again.” Josie called over her shoulder. “It’s a lot easier to spot without all the snow.”

“Yeah?”

“The box is still in it. We could see if everything we left is still there.” She stopped walking and turned to me. It was a fluid motion, almost planned if not for the spontaneity of it. Before I could speak-

“Do you care?” It came out like a birds song and lacked anything close to an

interrogative tone. She simply wondered. I stopped too, so long that I started to feel the mud grip my bare soles and tug. Staring into those deep blue eyes and thinking, I felt I could be honest.

“I do.” I lied anyway, as if my tongue no longer followed my orders but my lack of any desire to correct myself meant my brain had grown complacent. Josie didn’t budge. She didn't have to. There it was, the desire, creeping back into me. Slithering up my spine, the correction facilitated itself on my lips.

“I don’t.” I said, briefly breaking our eye contact.

“Mine or yours?” was her instant response. Again, void of inquisition. She didn’t even wait for an answer. Turning away, “Mine. Nobody’s home.”

There were about a thousand pillows on her bed, I think she collected them. Each one a different color with wildly different patterns and stitching, they made this patchwork cloud on the mattress, engineered for rest. I sat on a little section of the bed, what little room I could make among the fluff, and waited.

Behind the bathroom door, I heard her humming. It was too faint to recognize the tune but I knew in time that she probably had the CD and would put the song on when she came out. By the window she had her CD player on the shelf. It sat above her extensive collection.

I couldn’t call her room organized, I’d be lying. Nothing had a real order to it that would make sense to explain, it would never come across, but everything did have a place. Josie knew where every little thing was when she needed it even if it was hidden under all those pillows, or with the CDs on the shelf, or if it was one of the six books stacked on her nightstand - each with a bookmark in a wildly different spot.

As I looked at the books, the door opened and I saw she was completely dry. Completely dry and in nothing but her towel. She carried with her another towel, a slightly different shade of blue than hers, and tossed it to me.

“Dry off,” she said to me, “and turn around.”

I covered my head with the towel and turned away as she got dressed, though I’d seen it all before and there was really no point in it. I stayed quiet as she put clothes on. I didn’t listen intentionally, but I could still hear the sounds of the fabric against her soft skin as she dressed.

Quickly and mostly efficiently, I dried myself off. The water brushed off my skin, leaving my bare chest damp and my arms slick. I kept at it until I was completely dry. I then wrapped the towel around my shoulders.

Josie had put a CD in her player. She was methodical. She always knew what she wanted to hear and she knew just where it was on the shelf. I was never allowed to put the CD’s away when we were done listening, I’d put them back in all the wrong places. That’s what she thought.

In truth, I’d seen her put them all away so many times that I could’ve probably done it just as well. I’m pretty sure she enjoyed it though. Something about knowing it was done the way she intended every time.

Josie danced over to the bed, stepping on beat and flowing with the rhythm. Gracefully she brushed the pillows aside, a few falling to the floor, and sat in their place. Our legs brushed together and she laid down, pulling me back with her. We fell into the remaining pillows and fit perfectly between them.

She had so much. Always and with everything there was an abundance. I could wrap my head around it sometimes, like with books or clothes, but the pillows were the epitome of my lack of understanding. But in between them, to my surprise, I found myself thankful. I was cradled by them, shielded and hidden and so was she. We were there together, laying side by side and yet there was a world of pillows between us.

“Do you think they’re still waiting for us?” Her voice carried across the pillows. “To open the box, I mean.”

“Maybe.” I called back.

From outside, the rumble of an approaching car hummed up from the street. Doors opening and closing echoed and the sounds of our friends making for the creek was the loudest of all.

“There’s Rina. Did you hear the squealing?” I always laughed at Rina’s excited squealing. She was incessant with it any time something was the slightest bit thrilling.

“Well they definitely won’t be waiting now. Cole can’t be far behind.” She said between laughs. She was right, too. Rina and her little sisters were pushy enough but he never waited for anyone and once he got there they would forget all about our absence. I liked it better that way.

“You don’t mind do you? Missing it?” She said as she sat up. Held up by her arm, she looked at me.

“Not at all.”

Complete with the furrowing of her eyebrows, “Not at all?”

I just shook my head. She laid back down and sighed. We sat in silence for a moment and she rolled over to face me. I could see her peek through the pillows and we locked eyes.

“Do you remember finding the log? And picking the box? Do you miss things like that? The exploring and all?” She asked, her tone indicative of a nostalgic feeling for the first time.

I thought about finding the log and picking the box and exploring and all. I remembered how I felt more like a conquistador than ever and the whole world was before me ripe with new things to discover. It was glorious, a really brilliant display. The creek was a coral reef and I dove headfirst into its vibrance and life. I held the branches of trees and clomped through the muck of the banks with reckless abandon and boundless reverence. Nothing could’ve stopped me and I wouldn’t have given up my time exploring the creek for a shot at the rest of the world. The creek was mine, ours when I felt generous, and I never thought I’d see the day where someone else enjoyed it more.

“No.” I lied. I couldn't tell you why. She was quiet after that.

As we laid there and the music played on the cd player and the bright sun, peering through the windowpane, hit our entangled bodies, I noticed the strangest thing. I could see, just by how she was laying and all, that she had left a bit of dirt on her legs. I wasn’t staring but it stood out.

I mean she’d gotten all the water off and spent forever with that towel while I was turned around but there was still dirt.

I’d taken so much care to scrub the dirt from my feet before we got in her bed. Hadn’t she thought of that? She looked like one of those Jackson Pollock paintings and I’d begun to worry that her clean sheets might follow suit.

I laid there for a while just looking at it.

I must’ve seemed crazy. Really it was completely okay, I mean it’s her bed. I shouldn’t worry too much and truthfully her pale skin made the dirt really pop. I remember it sometimes on warm summer days when the only thing that would really cool me down is a wade through the creek.