Early Childhood Memory
I am about three years old and it is summertime in Connecticut. I am hiding. I do this a lot. I like to find places where absolute quiet prevails and no one can find me. I like to watch the slowness of things and often find places in the house or outside in the garden where some very small activity entertains me for a long time. It is so hot I can feel the dampness of my summer cotton dress sticking to my back and belly. I am lying under the large, green rhubarb leaves in our vegetable garden and it seems I have been here a long time. I am trying very hard not to move or even breathe as if I do either the family of large shiny black ants get distracted from their task of moving an object ten inches from its original home to a new one only the ants know. My skin itches sometimes but I am disciplined.There are few noises: some soft bird cries and the rustle of the leaves in the apple tree nearby. I can hear my mother in the kitchen washing dishes. I remember thinking I wish she would make chocolate pudding. The ants walk back and forth; it is warm and yet cool here under the leaves. I think I am invisible. I don’t want anyone to find me. I can smell the deep earthy smell of summer dirt.