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Writer's pictureKelly

10 Mississippis


The glass coke bottle, spun by an overzealous 8-year-old's sticky and dirty little hand, went round and round. It seemed as if it would never land. All of us were secretly hoping it would land on us. We wanted to be the next one dared to do something crazy and unthinkable, not knowing that we would remember this for a lifetime.


The bottle landed on Timmy.


Timmy was a blond-haired awkward kid who was wearing last year's school jeans, now cut into shorts, effectively squeezing one more season out of them, and a knock-off pair of black Converse sold at the local Kmart. We all knew the fake-outs but didn't dare speak it. We were mutually happy to pretend and act like the fake-Converse were real.


Timmy was dared to run 10 Mississippis deep into Mr. Robert's cow field, which everyone knew was full of quicksand traps to catch trespassing kids. Mr. Robert didn't like children, but all of the local children loved his cows. It was quite a standoff.


Timmy had to take someone with him. He chose me.


I'll never forget my chubby little body trying to keep up with Timmy, who ran with such ease. He ran backwards, giving me a better chance at keeping up. Timmy leaped over Mr. Robert's farm fencing; I went thru an opening between a set of posts. I almost didn't fit. Together, we yelled at the top of our lungs, so our friends could hear, "One Mississippi, two Mississippi."


We counted to ten, just as we were dared, and then turned around, dashing back and safely landing on the grass, breathing deeply, while triumphantly telling everyone that we didn't die in the quicksand. Timmy and I, we always made such a good team.


It was there, lying on the grass looking up at the blue Utah sky with white fluffy clouds, when Timmy turned to me and asked me if I wanted to go steady.


"Like, be my boyfriend," I asked.


"Sure," he said, adding, "You're my best friend."


"You're my best friend, too," I told him.


It was true. Timmy had a way of making me feel like one of the other kids, though, I knew I was not like them. They liked to do things that I didn't, like play tag or hide-n-seek. As for me, I much preferred to read. In those days, you'd be hard pressed to see me without a book, or piles of books, in my hands. Timmy really got that about me, and do you know what? He didn't mind, at all.


Sometimes, my mom would treat the neighborhood kids to ice-cold Kool-Aid on hot summer days and I would bring out a few books for Timmy and me to read together under a shaded tree. Those were my most cherished memories of the summer before the third grade. Timmy wasn't as good of a reader as me, and with a soft patience, I would help him sort out the more challenging words.


In the fall, we all went back to school. Our back-to-school clothes were purchased at Kmart, though we would tell everyone that we bought them at the fancy mall. It was a code word that evoked the silent pact of pretend, similar to the fake-out Converse. We all played along nicely.


My school nights were rigidly kept to homework, dinner, and bathtime, in that exact order. But on the weekends, Timmy and I enjoyed playing outside with the other kids. That is, until the snow came, and our parents kept us indoors. It was one of those indoor days when the family was gathered around our old black and white family television and the local news came on announcing the death of a local schoolboy. I only quarter-listened as I colored in my Barbie coloring book. The boy was playing ice hockey with his brothers and dad. He fell through the ice and drowned. His name was Timothy.


Though the name rang a bell, my 8-year-old invincible mind thought nothing of it. It was my mom who caught my attention, knowing Timmy was a classmate.


I stood up looking at the television. No words. No sound. Just staring.


All I could think about was, who would read with me now? Who would be the prince to my princess and make pretend cobblestones out of books and leap from book to book while the fire breathing dragon pursued?


I dared not tell my parents that Timmy was my boyfriend. I knew I would get in trouble. I wasn't allowed to have boyfriends. They never knew that Timmy was my whole world.


The next day, I went to school like any other school day and not another word was spoken about Timmy again. That is, until now.


The other day, Paul and I were driving and talking about the many ways Rivendell Sanctuary strives to be different from other sanctuaries. We spoke about the lush gardens, animal cottages with front yards, and lots of places to sit. You see, we want our friends and family to be able to sit with the animals and experience them as one can only do with full presence.


While we were daydreaming, I saw myself sitting under the young oak tree, which grows next to and over the coming-soon-sheep-cottage and reading aloud a book to my sheep children. As I continued to share the vision with Paul, I closed my eyes and imagined the sun warming me, and the sheep looking at me in a way that expressed their excitement for where the book's plot would take us. They would forget their trauma and I, too, would be able to let go of my own. Under the bluest of skies found at Rivendell, we would settle into the quiet beauty of life.


Paul continued to drive and I, looked out the window. It was then that I thought of Timmy and all the grief of an 8-year-old little girl that never had a way to be expressed out of fear that she would get in trouble.






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