and lemongrass tea. Abuelita had said they grew almost all their food themselves. She’d shown me the bean vines, the tall clumps of grass that smelled, strangely enough, like yellow Life Savers, the dried corn still on the cobs that she stripped and boiled and ground to make tortillas. After the meal, I’d stayed alert for signs of Montezuma’s revenge, but so far so good. Of course, the outhouse had been gross, and I had to sit over the wooden hole a full ten minutes before I was relaxed enough to go, but everything came out normal. Mom would have been happy that Abuelita boiled the drinking water in a giant pot over the fire to kill all the germs.
When the neat rows of corn ended, the land grew rocky. A steep dirt path led up through grasses and wildflowers. Hummingbirds and butterflies wove in and out of my path.
Abuelita’s sandals felt solid under my feet. I’d told her this morning she could have her shoes back. I said I could wear my gypsy shoes with two pairs of socks so that I wouldn’t get blisters. “No,
mi amor,
” she said. “Wear my sandals. My feet prefer touching the earth as they walk.”
Sometimes when you wear another person’s clothes, part of that person rubs off on you. Maybe it was Abuelita’s sandals that made me start thinking about hidden things. I pictured my life as a big forest. Up until a couple of days ago, I’d only lived in one little clump of trees. I’d thought that was all there was. But Abuelita had pulled me into another clump—another world. And here I was.
Now the path grew shady, with trees and moss-covered boulders along the way. I breathed in the smell of wet earth. This place reminded me of my nights in the woods at the edge of Walnut Hill, when I had the feeling that every cell of my body was tingling, ready for something big to happen.
The trail ended at a small stream, about knee-deep, maybe ten feet across. Water bugs ran across the surface and tiny fish flashed underneath.
I stopped and sat on a rock to map out the route so far. See, anytime I go somewhere new I make a map and think about the place from all perspectives. I imagine I’m a bird, looking down at the scene from above. I opened my sketchbook to a fresh page. With my pencil, I began tracing the path along the cornfield to the stream.
That was when I noticed the sound.
At first I thought it was the wind…but there was no wind. The leaves hung still. Maybe there was a highway nearby—it could be the rush of trucks. But no, that couldn’t be it—we’d traveled hours on one-lane dirt roads to get here. And the stream was too small to make more noise than a soft gurgling. What it really sounded like was a waterfall—a muffled waterfall. If that was it, it had to be farther upstream. I slammed my sketchbook shut, stuck it in my backpack, and started jogging along the stream.
A little while later, I paused to catch my breath. I shrugged off my backpack and leaned against a rock face. It felt cool on my back. The rock outcropping towered above me. Vines draped over the rock’s surface like a curtain of ropy hair. I had the urge to move back the vines, the way Mom always tried to push the bangs out of my face. The rushing sounded louder now, like a tub faucet turned on full force behind a bathroom door. But I didn’t see a waterfall anywhere.
The sun was high in the sky, already past the middle of its arc, now dropping toward the mountains. My grandparents ate lunch in the late afternoon, and I’d told them I’d eat with them. I took one last look around and then jogged back downhill. My legs kept going faster and faster, until the rest of me was just trying to keep up with them.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and soon, dark clouds blew in. The wind picked up, whipping branches this way and that. Green shadows flew past me. I leaped over fallen logs and ducked under low tree limbs. And you know the strange thing? All this wildness didn’t scare me. It felt good. It felt right. What
When the neat rows of corn ended, the land grew rocky. A steep dirt path led up through grasses and wildflowers. Hummingbirds and butterflies wove in and out of my path.
Abuelita’s sandals felt solid under my feet. I’d told her this morning she could have her shoes back. I said I could wear my gypsy shoes with two pairs of socks so that I wouldn’t get blisters. “No,
mi amor,
” she said. “Wear my sandals. My feet prefer touching the earth as they walk.”
Sometimes when you wear another person’s clothes, part of that person rubs off on you. Maybe it was Abuelita’s sandals that made me start thinking about hidden things. I pictured my life as a big forest. Up until a couple of days ago, I’d only lived in one little clump of trees. I’d thought that was all there was. But Abuelita had pulled me into another clump—another world. And here I was.
Now the path grew shady, with trees and moss-covered boulders along the way. I breathed in the smell of wet earth. This place reminded me of my nights in the woods at the edge of Walnut Hill, when I had the feeling that every cell of my body was tingling, ready for something big to happen.
The trail ended at a small stream, about knee-deep, maybe ten feet across. Water bugs ran across the surface and tiny fish flashed underneath.
I stopped and sat on a rock to map out the route so far. See, anytime I go somewhere new I make a map and think about the place from all perspectives. I imagine I’m a bird, looking down at the scene from above. I opened my sketchbook to a fresh page. With my pencil, I began tracing the path along the cornfield to the stream.
That was when I noticed the sound.
At first I thought it was the wind…but there was no wind. The leaves hung still. Maybe there was a highway nearby—it could be the rush of trucks. But no, that couldn’t be it—we’d traveled hours on one-lane dirt roads to get here. And the stream was too small to make more noise than a soft gurgling. What it really sounded like was a waterfall—a muffled waterfall. If that was it, it had to be farther upstream. I slammed my sketchbook shut, stuck it in my backpack, and started jogging along the stream.
A little while later, I paused to catch my breath. I shrugged off my backpack and leaned against a rock face. It felt cool on my back. The rock outcropping towered above me. Vines draped over the rock’s surface like a curtain of ropy hair. I had the urge to move back the vines, the way Mom always tried to push the bangs out of my face. The rushing sounded louder now, like a tub faucet turned on full force behind a bathroom door. But I didn’t see a waterfall anywhere.
The sun was high in the sky, already past the middle of its arc, now dropping toward the mountains. My grandparents ate lunch in the late afternoon, and I’d told them I’d eat with them. I took one last look around and then jogged back downhill. My legs kept going faster and faster, until the rest of me was just trying to keep up with them.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, and soon, dark clouds blew in. The wind picked up, whipping branches this way and that. Green shadows flew past me. I leaped over fallen logs and ducked under low tree limbs. And you know the strange thing? All this wildness didn’t scare me. It felt good. It felt right. What
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