Tangerine - Led Zeppelin

Looking back at memories of summer days, those were the best times for me as a child.

Long walks through wooded paths where light seeped in through the thick canopy of the trees above, long grass and plants scraped at my little legs and occasionally pulled on my small backpack making me look back into the dense forest closing behind us as we moved. My hand sweaty and warm held tightly onto my mother’s and looking up at her as she led me the sun cast a halo down magnifying the red in her hair and stained her arms with freckles. She would turn to me green eyes smiling, “We’re almost there.” A comfort to my tired legs. Soon we would stop at a clearing, the lush green grass below our feet reached out to touch a small creek full of small and large rocks littered with sunbathing frogs and bugs resting their wings. They created obstacles for the water and minnows inhabiting it and made the urgency at which the water flowed clear to our eyes even from afar. We moved to a spot near a tree to fluff out our blanket under the shade, I helped to unfold it and straightened my arms as far as I could to lay it on the ground, I still ran to straighten out each pink and green end to ensure it covered as much space as possible. I mimic my mother’s actions as she takes off her big chunky mud boots and sets them on the far corner of the blanket, I take mine and set them neatly to accompany hers in the same fashion pink and brown messy laces taking up little space next to hers. I sat in front of her opening my bag as she opened hers to get the lunch and snacks, I packed from it, as the secondhand zipper got stuck, I stared at the pink cat and the little strawberry shortcake girl adorning the bag patiently waiting to ask for my mother’s help in opening it. As she finishes with her bag, she sets it aside and looks up at me and smiles reaching out her hand to help with the finicky zipper. Once that was done before us laid a large feast, our blanket now home to chips, sandwiches, strawberries, grapes, tangerines, carrots, teas, water, and Little Debbie snack cakes. We dug into our food my mother watching me as my ravenous body dived into different food groups picking from each moving back and forth across the blanket, “Slow down!” she says laughing, “you’ll make yourself sick eating that fast.” And I listened in anticipation of exploration of our newly discovered picnic spot after our meal.

As my mother slides a heavily used and worn paperback into her hands, I get up to explore abandoning my shoes on the blanket with her. The vibrant green grass is soft and plush under my feet as I walk towards the bank of the creek there is a small step that I take with a leap to get to the sandy patch before the water I play with the sand in my hands rubbing them together to feel the grains scratch at them and make them feel soft. I soon drop it back onto the earth’s floor to abandon the small bank for the water. I step slowly into it, the water warm but still a fresh reprieve from the sticky summer air, I dip my hands into it to wash the rest of the sand from them and take note of the small rocks I can see as the water is shallow and clear at the edge. I pick out a few I find special, some with interesting colors and patterns that I’m amazed to see in nature, and some made smooth by the constant rush of water above them and store them in my pockets for safekeeping. I tread farther into the water, I feel my mother’s gaze at the back of my head taking a break from her book to make sure I haven’t strayed out of sight, “Be careful on the rocks they’re slippery!” long abandoning her mission to get me to wear water shoes, their squishy cold soles dampening my fun. I climb up onto a particularly large rock using both my hands and feet in order to heed my mother’s warning, I spot a particularly plump and round toad begging to be caught and I quickly reach across the rock to catch it. Its large eyes stare back at me as I hold it up at eye level inspecting its face. Its slimy green body expanding and contracting in my hand ever so slightly as it breathes. As I go to set it down to further inspect and take in the dark green and brown patterns speckled across its back it jumps landing on a small rock next to me. From here it is harder to see but I don’t mind the frog’s need for space from my curious hands and eyes and I continue looking upon it as he sits on his own rock, and I think of us as two friends sitting together sharing a summer afternoon. A cloud moves across the sky revealing the sun and brightening the scenery, bringing out the vivid colors of nature. My head is shielded by a small white bucket hat soaked in sunscreen and hiding my face from the warmth above. As I move to sit on the rock, I sink my feet into the water the minnows tickling my feet as they zoom past, I lift my head to feel the sun’s warmth on my face and relax my body. I bask in the feeling of this summer’s day alongside my froggy friend and my mother reading upon the bank.

As I grow older the colors fade from this memory, they turn dull and lifeless as our relationship grew tumultuous and explosive. Time wearing at the memory creating a haze of animosity over it. The stress of life not only changing the memory and eroding it but also at the bonds these days built. Warnings of safety turn from casual warnings to venomous words on how careless I could be, patient words and soft smiles turned to exasperated huffs and tight scowls as my curious exploration turned from that of the woods to the world of middle and high school relationships. As our tether to one another grew long and secrets became obstacles between us her footsteps that once led me on great journeys became a sound I memorized as a warning of her arrival. The quality time we once shared now diminished to just memories by busy work and miscommunication.

As I sit across from my mother now the realities of adulthood and time have healed me and let me understand her more. The fog clearing from my mind and freeing it of jaded thoughts and feelings. Now I see her, not only staring back at me but within me, I mirror her. Her face dimpled with time and hair changed with age, she still resembles not only the face from my memories but of my face staring back at her. Our noses share the same large angular slope that meet the cupid’s bow of our upper lips and our eyes although different in shade share the same shape. When looking at me I know she sees the girl she once saw in the mirror who now only lives in photographs stored away in tins under her bed that carry secrets of her life before motherhood. When she looks at me, I know she sees her everything, “she’s my greatest treasure.” She tells boyfriends new and old. All her love poured into one person, her living reflection. She’s my rock, my everything, the one person I can ask for help no matter what, she is also my everything. She is the only comfort I know, brought to me through memories of those warm summer days. I often find myself wondering if she remembers these times as vividly as I do. And that when she looks back on old hikes and picnics by the stream I wonder if she just remembers the pictures we have of those days. Does she just remember her daughter crouched between large tree roots smiling brightly for the camera? Or does she remember the smell of the damp forest air, fresh and musky as it would cling to your skin in the summer humidity creating a sweat over it. Does she remember the sounds? Our boots crunching over leaves and branches, of animals rustling in the brush escaping our arrival, of the water splashing and staining the rocks, of toads croaking, and of high pitch giggles and boisterous laughs. Does she remember the colors? The colors of bright green grass and trees creating a bubble of privacy around us, of clear rushing water with its grey rocks, of crunchy deep brown bark that scratched at our backs as we leaned against it and cut up our hands as we climbed it.

When I hear “tangerine, tangerine”, I think of her. I think of summer days and my memories of her. But I also think of her and who she was before me. Who was she before we met, and we became each other’s world? Am I like the girl in the pictures? Her hair red big and full teased high to the sky or cut short and cropped close barely brushing her ears. Her eyes always crinkled on the sides appearing almost closed and accompanied by a large smile to the camera or her friends who join her to capture the moment. Her face the same as mine but her body tanned and freckled sitting with friends, hiking state parks, celebrating birthdays, and visiting far away beaches. These memories of hers are a secret to me rarely talked about and maybe she has done this on purpose. She keeps these for herself, and our memories are for us to share, after all I have memories of my own hidden away. Stored in old tins under my bed photos and notes of my time before I share my life with someone who will become my everything.