Hence, the Pickle

At 9 I was groggy in my pj's, thinking about what might happen that day. I was 7 years old. It was kind of hot, but not so hot that you would submit and waste your days indoors doing a crossword or something like that, just hot enough to make your skin prickle and tinge with a light glisten. At 9:15 I was dressed and out the door, heading through my yard, but not toward the gate, just jumping the fence.

Nothing beats shortcuts.

So it was maybe 10 when the boys finally opened the door. They looked sleepy and dirty, and by looked, I mean they both certainly were. They hadn't changed clothes from yesterday and looked mighty proud of it. They had all the gear, plenty of their sister's old dolls to drop from high elevations, jolly ranchers by the bucket, and large pre-fabricated cardboard flying devices, constructed in our secret workshop in my kitchen the night before.

It was truely shaping up to be a great day.

Bumbling across eachother, they exited the front door and flanked me down the street just in case Chad Warener Lervingston was around. Beyond that point, I think we started growing up really fast. I mean really fast, like cheetah fast. I'm unsure, but I think it was right then, right before we got to her house.

We got to her house at maybe 11. By then we were 8 years old. I didn't have to wait like with the boys, she knew when we'd get there and she was well prepared. She stepped outside in that dress, too adorable for a day of being stupid kids, but it still made the sunshine a little bit brighter.

Probably worth it.

She had that same little stuffed bear with her. She used to tell me she carried it for safety's keeping. I told her that I didn't know that safety could keep things. She just gave me that look and laughed and hugged me.

She gave the best hugs.

I think we kept aging, because I started feeling awkward, like I wanted to kiss her, real badly too. I didn't though because I was still considering the possibility of girls having some secret cootie sickness.

We all made our way over to the launch pad, a special spot right outside our neighborhood where we planned all of our adventures. She looked kind of scared, but she handed me the stuffed bear with an air of confidence about her, and sternly told me to keep good track of it while she was flying, for safety's keeping of course.

I think we were growing really fast, because I felt like we were teenagers, and kind of too old to be buying into this kind of idea. This felt stupid and wrong. But we did it anyway, we strapped her up and she climbed onto the wall and she jumped.

And the world froze.

I suppose, in the grand scheme of things, the aftermath is inconsequential. The time was inconsequential. We were all that was.

For that one second, for that one instance of time and space, that one unique moment, we were all flying with her. We were ageless, growing and falling in love with the time, holding the space, and refusing to let go.

I think I'm 92 now. My body creaks like floorboards and my memory is like a dense fog, both impassable and hollow. I am still 7. I am still 8. I am still 10. I can still see that dress, not made light by the sun, but itself lighting the world, and I hold onto that memory. It is my flagpost for when all else is lost. I keep it for safety, for fear, for protection, for love. I keep it for her. I keep it for the four of us.

One day I will start growing backwards I think, once I get high enough in numeric years, and I will do it all over again.

I will do everything the exact same way.

Life is not resent or regret, life is a small, brown, stuffed bear and four kids and one last great adventure to have before we're too old to care anymore.

I will never let go of that.

I will never see her fall.