When I was younger, we used to go down to the riverside and skip rocks. My siblings, and sometimes, a myriad of cousins would join us all yelling and run at full speed along the dirt road. We would often forget our shoes, small children practicing small acts of defiance against their parents.
We were wild children, jumping over each other, climbing on trees and tumbling down, down into the depths of the greenish water. Taking refuge on the larger rocks, the younger children, who had yet learn to swim, would take turns finding small stones to throw into the water.
If you were lucky enough, you would catch a crayfish or two for a snack. It became a game, a chase between dinner and fun. Could you catch crayfish and find the best stones to skip across the water? We would move on to bigger rocks in shallow water because that’s where the bigger crayfish hides. Slowly you would walk on your tippy-toes, be careful not to cause a ripple, place your hands under the rock and GRAB IT!
DON’T LET IT GETAWAY!
RUN RUN RUN!
A fit of giggles and shouting would erupt, all eyes focused on the chase as dinner raced through the waters, a foot caught on a rock, and down you go. Now there’s crying; I hope there’s no blood. How will I explain this to mom, it was just some river-time fun? Hush, no more crying, you’re not even bleeding.
I look for small pebbles wherever I go now, remembering splashing water and yelling. Oldtime river riding, I hold these little memories in my hands and do my best to skip them across a different pond. Silence, then skip, skip, skip, splosh. I was never good at holding on to this childhood laughter that built in my throat. Maybe, I’ll try my hand at skipping stones by greenish waters once more.
*This is a repost from a medium article I wrote, I hope you like it.
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