(After Frida Kahlo’s “Viva la Vida)
The creek water is so cold it’s slushy, shocking my ankles as I wade in. The watermelon-heavy, striped, perfect- gets carefully chosen from the cooler and gently placed on moss-covered rocks that smell of wet earth and something green and ancient. My toes curl tightly to the sole, trying to trap what little warmth remains.
We spend the day splashing in the creek, racing sticks, slipping and nearly falling on the moss-slick rocks. Laughing, yelling above the roar of the creek.
By afternoon, our skin is sun-splotched and sunburnt, stinging as we slide into sleeping bags that smell of storage and summer plans. We re camping in the backyard-close enough to hear the house settling, far enough to feel wild. Sleep feels impossible with so much night ahead of us.
This is when the divide happens. The youngsters start yearning first, quiet whimpers for their mothers, then the soft unzipping of sleeping bags. One by one, they creep back toward the house, seeking warmth and cuddles and the familiar weight of real walls.I watch their small silhouettes disappear through the back door, swallowed by yellow kitchen light.
But we older ones-eight, nine, ten years old and drunk on our own daring—we stay. We pull our sleeping bags closer together and begin the ghost stories, our voices dropping to whispers that make everything sound more true. Jean tells the one about the woman in white who walks the creek at midnight. Cousin Rick adds details about her wet footprints leading right up to the tent flaps. Our words hang in the air like smoke from the dying fire.
We shiver, but not entirely from cold. Half-hoping the haunts are real, that something wild might find us here in this liminal space between day and sleep, between the safety of childhood and whatever comes after. What are we hoping for? Some proof that magic still moves in the world. Some creature from the stories that would choose us, mark us as worthy of wonder. Some transformation that would let us return to the house tomorrow changed, carrying secrets the younger ones could never understand.
The watermelon’s sweetness still lingers on our tongues as we finally drift toward sleep,seeds scattered like promises in the dark.
