Echoes of Light

I’ve always been a bit of a weirdo. 

While other girls were playing dolls and house, I was crawling on my belly through the mallow weeds, disappearing into a world of wild exploration. My maternal grandmother—a refined woman who worked in education and played classical piano beautifully—was forever reminding me to “keep my shoes and stockings on.” But I was never one for shoes. She had narrow, delicate feet, while I took after my father’s side, built for sturdiness. 

There’s a meme I adore that says: 
*”When I exercise, my DNA still thinks I’m a European peasant. So it’s like ‘Oh, are we running from the English again, lass? Dinnae ye worry, we’ll keep ye plump as a partridge to outlast the murderous bastards.’”* 
Even with my own English ancestry, I find it hilarious—because honestly, it rings true. 

Along with crawling through the weeds, my dearest childhood companion was a grand backyard tree. I never knew its species—maybe a sycamore—but it sheltered me through countless adventures. Beneath its branches, I carried a pouch of marbles, each one a member of a royal court. The exposed roots became their castle, complete with carved-out throne holes where my marbles would roll and plunk into place. A dirt pathway wound through their domain, and in my mind, this was a kingdom worthy of legend. 

At that time, we lived in a house with five acres of open land. Saturday mornings after cartoons, I would vanish into the yard, tunneling through the mallows, concocting imaginary meals from flowers and leaves. My dad warned me about poisonous plants, but I still sampled clover and purslane, savoring the taste of the wild. Barefoot and free, I rarely got sick. 

We had chickens that roamed the property, and one in particular—a little auburn-colored banty hen named Mrs. Murphy—was my closest friend. I would stretch out on one of those old aluminum lawn chairs, and she would hop into my lap, nesting in for a nap as if she belonged there. 

I was mostly a loner. My sister, almost eight years older, had no use for a seven-year-old tagalong. My mom didn’t allow my school friends to visit, deeming them “bad association,” so I learned to entertain myself. But boredom never found me. 

That house—those five acres—remains my favorite place we ever lived. My parents were still together, life was steady, and the world felt whole.