She wasn’t thinking about “rows and floes of angel hair.” Wait, you mean it isn’t bows and floes? The Girl shook her head. Wrong, as usual. Surrounded by air that was slightly humid, the faint whine of mosquitoes sullied the solitude. She thought again about how things seemed louder to her and how even the slightest noise startled her.
The familiar flutter in her chest as a twig snapped caused her to spin around and jump at the sight of a friend sneaking up on her. The Alone Girl was used to being teased by others who found humor in startling her. Her practiced smile appeared as her friend chuckled, unaware of the state of panic caused within the Girl. Decades later the Girl would learn, oh, whatever. It doesn’t matter. What’s done was done and can’t be undone. The damage remains.
The friend asked what the Girl was doing. The Girl replied, “I don’t know. I was listening to the woods.” And she was. There were so many layers of sound in the woods from breezes brushing by leaves to birds scrounging for seeds to the faint undercurrent of a nearby stream. The Girl belonged in this environment. She needed this peace. It was like she visited this space in order to recharge.
The insipid “friend’s” chatter was gnawing at the edge of the Girl’s awareness. Determined not to respond to the repeated questions of why she was so weird and why did she do odd stuff like this, the Alone Girl stood up from her seat on the fallen log and walked off. Never deliberately confrontational, she walked away signaling the end of the conversation. That was her M.O.
In further search of peace, she stopped midway on the bridge over the huge pond. There she observed fish of all sizes jockeying with each other for a snack. It was a dog eat dog world everywhere. The pale sun of early spring bathed her face. She closed her eyes and listened to the frogs making their presence known. Why was it that any variety of sounds could be a blessing and a curse to her? Was she the only one with this perception? It didn’t matter. It wasn’t a subject she dared bring up to anyone else. They didn’t get it.
As always, words coursed through her head as though spurred on by what she heard: “Before the breathing’ air is gone/Before the sun is just a bright spot in the nighttime/Out where the rivers like to run/ I stand alone and take back something worth remembering.” She felt a smile cross her face. Her moment of peace was complete.
Lyrics from “Out in the Country” by Three Dog Night
Stories Are For Eternity 