Trampoline

Kuh-theaw. Kuh-theaw. Kuh-theaw. The trampoline's rusted hinges dipped down and up like the head of a discouraged turtle. The old fabric rubbed rough the skin of my heels and pointed toes, curling to propel myself up. My hands clasped together dead center on my collar bone, cemented perfectly in place by my force of concentration and will. My body curled into itself like a dry leaf left out in winter, knees bent and feet stuck flat on the saggy trampoline surface--then, the feet pointed, the ankles straightened, the knees locked, and I shot up into the gray-marble sky, my body arced slightly like an exclamation point.

I was on the bank of the Savannah River in hurricane season. About 100 feet away from me was a once-white house, long-abandoned by its past owners, who must have also owned the trampoline I was jumping on. I faced the house and the vegetation consuming it, my back turned against the river and the kayaking party I had come with. Although I couldn't see them, I knew my parents and the other adults in the party (I was the only kid) were changing shoes, zipping snacks into bags, and looking out at the hurried waters of the Savannah with hesitation.

But I had grown bored of the preparation about 30 minutes earlier. Now, all my focus and energy were in my clasped hands and in my feet, rhythmically moving with the sag and push of the trampoline. My eyes were fixed on watching the winds bend tree branches and trailing vines back and forth, seeming as light and movable as my own hair. Their green, the house's exposed, cracking wood, and even my skin looked washed with gray, as if I were wearing tinted sunglasses.

Kuh-theaw. Kuh-theaw. The trampoline whined under my weight, but I was constantly worried that I would catch a passing gust of wind and fly away, long and effortless as ribbon. I closed my eyes and smiled to show my teeth. I forgot all about being 13--I forgot my pierced ears, my insecurity about my glasses, and my hatred of mud on my clothes. I was seven, when I didn't notice body size or acne--when every day, I was an exclamation point. I lost the knowledge I'd gained in the past six summers, and replaced it with the youth and purity and simple happiness that I remembered from being seven. And then, suddenly, a passing gust of wind carried me away--but not all of me. Only the jaded, too-cool part of me that had forgotten what water on bare feet felt like, and how it didn't really matter if I had mud on my clothes.

I let my body go limp on the trampoline, falling to my hands and knees. Mom's voice called me, and I closed my eyes again. I inhaled, and the air seemed to rush up my nose like wind itself, purifying my lungs and chilling my brain. Shivering, I opened my eyes and saw with a new clarity. I got off the trampoline and ran down to the kayaks, to put on my shoes and get more mud on my clothes.