2006-04-18
hardscrabble road
I have lost my ability to concentrate on anything, not even my ancient paperbacks about unicorns and goblin kings.
In Vermont, I didn't hide in my room all day, not even when the temperature dropped so low, my hair turned brittle and froze. I used to hang out at the horse barn on Hardscrabble road after school. The other riders--girls with French braids and designer jeans--joked around because I couldn't afford my own pony. I got along better with their boyfriends, the lanky guys who raced lawn mowers at the Field Day parade.
I missed taking walks with my Dad in the mountains. We would hike down to the lake at Middlebury college. I would kick off my flip flops and scramble barefoot up the path. Sharp rocks dug into my feet but I kept climbing, hopping over roots and brushing aside branches.
The path grew narrower as we spotted a ski ramp, like some kind of medieval torture wheel. We turned a corner, sliding on a sheet of granite, and the lake appeared like a page from a popup book. The mountains rose around it in a big, green bowl. When I laughed, my voice boomed all around like a mirage.
I slid down the edge of the slope. "There's a dog on the log," I said, giggling.
Across the water, I could make out people clinging to a car-sized log, bobbing in the wake. They were kicking the dog each time he grew near. I couldn't understand why they would hurt him.
"What's wrong with those people?" I asked Dad.
"They're scared," he said. "But that doesn't make it right."
The dog's yelps echoed around me, coming from all directions at once. He must've finally given up because I saw him paddling to the other side, taking the shortest route diagonally to the edge. He hopped on shore and lifted his leg by a stump.
"Come here, pooch," Dad kept calling, but the dog never came to us.
The dog bounced from rock to rock, his tail thumping. He looked right at me with his soft, puttylike nose and the kindest eyes.
f-i-n at 4:27 p.m.