The Ant Hill
Written several years ago.
Sometimes I wonder why we were not given the ability to remember every day of our lives. I often press against the fathomless walls of black spaces and ethereal like voids, hoping to grasp a shining sliver of a memory, an ancient thought of mine, maybe even a taste, a smell. I sift cautiously, however, afraid to pick up a shard of my past that lies as the remains of an eternal blister that ripens with the triggers of life.
I am thankful for the memories I do possess. I feel as though I hold them on a shelf, which sits with oily finger prints, and smears of dust that shift around from time to time–a result of mishandling, even with positive intent.
One of my first clips of the past is simple, sweet, almost insignificant. I remember the stillness of the first house my parents ever bought which sat at the bottom of a hill on “Birdie Lane”. It was this grey stucco house with a dusty off-white gazebo and trenches which would flood with clay looking water when spring showers would arrive. It was a castle to me.
I felt small, which is strange because I think, the greatest, the biggest, the most full of life I’ve ever felt, is as a child. It was summer and in the Atlanta heat summer feels like a still dream. The air holds your skin, making your movements feel like caramel stickiness with the odor of freshly cut grass and the fumes of an oven set to broil. I do not recall the occasion, an obvious dilemma of trying to remember, but my mother and I were walking up the front stoop of the house. I was barefoot, which was a treat. My toes could breath, the hardened ground beneath my feet made me feel free. I moved with a peaceful happiness that children often possess. Unaware of my surroundings, as I set to step up to the house my foot landed in a rather large anthill. Alarm set in as I watched what seemed like a thousand ants slither their way up my ankle to my calf; they were determined, I’m sure, yet unclear of their destination.
In times of panic, I think there’s this slight pause that we experience, to assess what is really going on. My pause, however, seemed to last a moment too long. Shortly after I allowed the ants to start marking their territory on every crevice of my skin, I began to jump, scream, slap, dance, skip, anything to shake the ants off. My mother’s reaction is fuzzy to me. I think in times of true panic, we perceive ourselves as being in solitude anyways.
