A little girl lived with her family on the edge of town. In the evenings, her dear father would return and, over dinner, tell tales of his day’s adventures, some funny, some mysterious. Later, as they settled in their beds, he would play music or spin fabulous tales of the adventures they might have some day, she and her brother chiming in with the details of their own desires and dreams. But in the morning, her father was gone, her mother was busy, her brother had his own games. She had books, richly embellished in reds, blues, and golds, gifts from her gram who lived in a land far away. Her gram had been forbidden fairy tales, and still cherished the brief summer days spent with a great aunt near the sea, where she was allowed to read to her heart’s delight, as she sat on the rocky shore waiting for the tides to recede that she might gather the day’s mussels and Irish moss.
For the little girl, there was no sea, no tides, but she soon learned that, if she paid attention, she could sometimes find that moment in the day when she might quietly disappear for a spell and never be missed.
She had been warned not to go near the river; she compromised. She crouched down and crawled to the river’s edge, gripping the grass for dear life, her blood booming in her ears as the water rushed below. She backed down and away, then wandered further along the river through the meadow. Grasshoppers, butterflies, bumblebees, crows, magpies, bluebirds, mushrooms, thistles, wild roses, foxtail barley, the wind, the clouds. She came upon a little creek, placid with minnows and water-striders in the shade of a wizened apple tree. The tree beckoned, opening its arms to her, and she climbed right in. From there she could see further than she had ever seen: the rabbit-bramble and bitterbrush and cottonwood on the far side of the river, the dark little creek below, the sunny field beyond, and oh -- a burro grazing there! He was small, grey-brown, a white muzzle and round white belly, dark points accenting his soft eyes and ears, and a curious marking on his back: a thin dark stripe from mane to tail and then another, crossing the first, marking his shoulders. She said “hello” and he lifted his head to look over at her, then bent back down for more succulent grasses. She waited, remarked upon what a fine day it was. He grazed closer. The apple tree sensed her yearning, lifted her over the water and into the field. She reached out and caressed the burro’s warm back at the very place where the two dark lines crossed. She could smell him -- dusty, pungent as juniper. She leaned in, closer, closer and slowly, slowly lowered herself onto his back. He shivered once and began to walk with her round the edges of the field, stepping deliberately, swaying slightly beneath her, his ears turning back to catch her whispered “thank you, thank you.”
When they returned to the apple tree he stopped and she slid off, her arms round his neck. The day was hot, she took off her clothes, waded into the creek, lay on the the hot sand to dry. The burro came over and nuzzled her arm, licked her salty shoulder, wandered back to the shade.
She was home in time for supper. That night she hugged the story of her day to her breast, wanting to tell it, knowing she couldn’t.
