I remember those long summer afternoons with you, but have misplaced some of my memories of how we made it to the river. I’m sure our options were to venture from our home on Skyline Drive or grab a ride into town with mom and set out from there to the find the river. I was 11 and you were on target for 10 in December. We were two feral kids about to explore the outdoors and let the Truckee River be our Eden.
We meandered away from town. The sky was blue and polka dotted with little white puffy clouds. The sun was high and bright. We would listen to the summer breeze frolic with the leaves then walk in the direction that seemed most likely to contain the river. We would wind our way to the outskirts where the pavement met the flora. Once there, we felt the bitterbrush rub against our legs. It would release a sweet scent reminiscent of the blossoms it had hugged weeks before and now perfumed our path. Along the way, we met curious cottontail rabbits whose ears were x-rayed by the summer sun as they hopped back to the safety of their shallow dens. There were fast moving lizards that scurried over rocks. As much as we tried, we could never catch them. Eventually, we would make it to the river banks where the willows leaned their heavy branches over the flowing water, branches full with a bounty of green leaves that would shiver softly as the breeze blew past.
The river was slower in summer but still offered the deep swimming holes we had hoped to explore as a welcome reprieve from the heavy heat. We would find the spot with the perfect rock to use for jumping from later, but for now, it was a place to set our clothes and expose the swimsuits we wore. We would slowly inch our way into the cold water, wading to the deeper parts and surrender fully, floating on our backs. We liked this most because you could watch birds fly overhead and clouds pass by. Our bodies went wherever the river decided to take us. Eventually, it would bring us to the shallow waters closer to shore. Out we’d go. Now barefoot, small sharp rocks and tiny twigs would poke our feet. Vulnerable skin, softened by the water, would become scratched by bushes as we scrambled through to find our jumping rock. We repeated this process many times: floating down river, beaching onto the shore, then out and scrambling back.
The sun that was once high in the sky would begin its descent and we knew our time was limited. A few more floats and jumps before bidding farewell and returning to the pavement. These childhood memories are so long ago, but the memories of the soft breeze, the smell of the bitterbrush, the cool river float and the time with you, especially, will always remain. It’s been 16 years since you’ve passed, but warm, languid days like today bring you next to me. I love you, dear brother.
Comentarios