The Hammock Story

The girl spent October like an hour.

The girl had summer afternoons in January. She basked in windowpane sunshine. She lived for the yellow-orange light that poured in every morning around eight. She lived for the morning rituals she formed from years of living there; she made the bed in bare feet and filled the teakettle. Winter months were supposed to be an emotional low, which she understood, but never really felt.

The girl made spring's lively June into a chlorophyll calm. She took in the French-cut green bean grass with her eyes and now toes, visible in sandals. "It's been crisper," she said, "but never this way." She appreciated those little differences.

The girl knew August was for Hammock. She threw on a clean outfit every day just to lie with Hammock. Hammock had always been, it seemed. She knew this wasn't true because she remembered life before Hammock, but it sounded like it might be right to somebody and so she liked to say it.

"There aren't enough Saturdays in summer to be here with you," she crooned to Hammock while gazing intently toward the ground one afternoon. "There're some things you should know about watching grass, like how it'll turn blue in the right breeze.

"How grass moves like sparrows. How grass reminds me of perfectly French-cut string beans."

Hammock moved a little.

"Yes, it moves just like that."

It was noon, and all they'd had for lunch was one cream cheese sandwich between the two of them. It'd been the best sandwich she'd ever had the pleasure of tasting. Sandwiches like this were the reason she felt so badly that Hammock couldn't eat.

Hammock swayed. Lattice shadows and her silhouette passed over the string bean lawn. She talked from time to time, mostly to entertain herself and Hammock. It's easy to get lost in a string bean lawn, and it's even easier to forget where you are when you're immersed in language.

"Why do little children say 'get lost' like it's an insult?" She didn't say it to Hammock, like she usually did. She simply asked.

The neighbor's screen door smacked open. The neighbor didn't really like her. She guessed it was because the neighbor didn't approve of Hammock. She couldn't see why, but decided

"that's OK,"

and didn't think much else of it. She hoped the neighbor hadn't hurt Hammock was all.

It's hard to worry when you're running your hand through lush French-cut grass, anyway. Her friends never could figure out why she was so stable. She liked that. "Some things are better when kept secret," she'd smile.

Hammock could keep secrets best, she'd learned. She was always happy to tell Hammock something new and exciting. She said her thoughts and feelings while she brushed her fingertips across the crisp, green blades below. She let Hammock rock her to sleep in the early afternoon, especially after a tiring story. "Did you know that there're ant hills under here?" Hammock was a good listener.

Hammock never answered her, but she never really minded.

"Talking is exhausting," she explained to herself and rolled onto her side.

Below them, ants were searching the lawn for anything of ant value. "Do you remember how I used to feed them all in the summer, Hammock?"

As a young child, she left orange pulps by every anthill she could find. Her friends would've rather held them under magnifying glasses (as many of them did), but she sat at her kitchen table every morning, peeling oranges. She took great care to not break any of the pulps when she freed them from their slices. "What if I need just one more piece for one last anthill?" she asked whenever her painstaking process was questioned. "I want to help them all, not just some." She always beamed when she said that. "Everyone said I should be a missionary with that attitude," she pointed out to Hammock, "but I didn't want to." With that, she started to laugh.

Her laugh was very refreshing, an old heirloom in a new house kind of refreshing.

The neighbor's screen door smacked closed. Hammock heard the neighbor cock the gun and waited.

She heard the neighbor's gun, and the explosive sound stung her ears. She lay with Hammock, hands over her ears, even when the young officer asked her what happened.

The girl still lies with Hammock in the summer, and she still watches the grass shiver. She still feels sad when she eats cream cheese sandwiches, knowing she can't share them. Shiny new cars still roll to crunching gravel stops at the edge of her lawn. They still get jealous of her old car in the driveway. They always find themselves too envious to stay long and leave a few minutes later. She still laughs when they do that, but later tells Hammock she wished one of them would stay.

"Just once, and I'd show it how to tilt its head to see the blue in the grass, even when the breeze isn't perfect.

"I'd introduce you to it, Hammock," she patted one of Hammock's knotted ropes, "if that's OK."

So Hammock swayed. Lattice shadows and her silhouette passed over the string bean lawn.