There’s more and more of my early years that slips away from me as years go by. I don’t remember much from my childhood and envy those who can spout off chapter and verse.
But I do remember, for a short, enchanted period of time, living beside a waterfall. And the muted thunder of sound filled my days and nights like music, weaving itself into the fabric of my dreams, as subtle and necessary as a heartbeat.
I remember climbing up a steep slope, carpeted with pine needles. It was so slippery I had to hang onto the trunks of trees to haul myself up. Laughing till I could hardly stand, breathing in the cool, delicious fragrance of the pines. The waterfall would throw off spray with a chuckling sound, as if it were laughing at my silly antics. I don’t remember the faces of my parents, although I know they were there. Strangely enough my memories of this place are all sensory.
Perhaps that’s why my recent move to the Pacific Northwest seemed almost to have been preordained, or perhaps it was the awakening of the memories of trees and water and crystalline air which drew me so strongly to my new home. Whatever the reason, I am glad to have these memories to call my own and to share. I wish I could have shared a picture as well, but the only one I could find was too small, so I have chosen a lovely substitute. If you’re ever in the area of Bright Water Falls, Near Henderson, you might come across it, and if you do, think of me.