I am walking down a path in a small, quaint country village.  It is a warm night and warm wind sweeps wisps of hair across my face.  I can hear the hair as it flaps against my ears and it sounds like music.  I am very determined to get to wherever I am headed.  I do not want distraction.  I want to move.  I want to keep walking and making a song with my flapping hair and my footsteps and the warm wind.  I pass by a windmill and I climb it.  The windmill is nervous under my weight and I don’t know if it can support me.  But I have no time to be scared of heights so I keep climbing.  On the very top, weathered ledge is a baby goat. I know that it is my job, today, to take care of this goat.  I pet it and feed it crisp, green leaves I’ve just found in my pocket.  The goat looks at me expectantly and I have to tell it that I have no more leaves.  I can tell it’s hungry and I feel guilty.  I wonder why I tend to feel guilty so much – it isn’t my fault I don’t have any more leaves!  Get them yourself, goat!  But it cant walk and it’s stuck up here.  I say goodbye and apologize for the brief visit and promise that I’ll come back tomorrow.  The goat gives me a look and I know I’ve blown it.  I’ve blown it and I should never come back.  I jump off the windmill and land in cool, clear water that is thick and it feels like it’s hugging me.  I want to hug it back, but that is almost impossible.  I get nervous and sweaty all of a sudden and I hear a low moaning sound.  I look up at the string of lights surrounding the lake.  The lights are whining.  They are strained and bored of shining and just can’t wait for morning to come.  This night is the longest night of the year and they hate it.  The lights don’t seem to understand that they aren’t the only ones that dislike their jobs.  I tell them that everyone has to work, it’s just the way it is, stop complaining.  But they are tired of every robot day being exactly the robot same.  I tell them that I know what they mean, that I’m pretty sick of everyday feeling the same too.  But I ask them to hang in there, not quit yet because I need their light to see where I’m going and I have to be going.  Right now.  They stay on, but they do it grudgingly.  I tell them to suck it up.

            A car pulls up next to me.  I think they are going the wrong way, but it’s an old family friend so I get in.  There is a tree planted in the front seat and a kayak floating in cold saltwater in the back. 

            “Where should I sit?” I ask.

            “Wherever.”

            I don’t like this.  “I don’t want to get wet.  I hate the feeling of wet jeans sticking to my legs.”

            “I don’t know what to tell you.”

            “You could tell me where to sit.”

            “Get out.”

            I get out.  I don’t think that was an old family friend.  I wonder why some people are just mean and some people are just nice and try to figure out what impression I give and worry that it’s the former and then tell myself not to worry because what does worrying bring you anyway.  Worrying could bring about a change, I say.  But then I start running and my surroundings become a blur of faded color and I can’t remember what to think about.  I am running and the wind is getting colder and colder and I hate it.  It smells like wet dog and eucalyptus and firewood so I stop running.  Colors separate and I see an old man sitting next to a fire he’s made in a little clearing of trees. 

            “Oh, sorry.  I didn’t realize,” he says.  “I can leave.” 

            “Oh no.  I didn’t realize,” I say.  “Stay.  I’ll go.”

            “This isn’t my house, but I was so cold I had to sit by the fire.”

            “It’s not a house.”

            “To you.”

            “I guess I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.”

            “That’s what I’ve learned.”

            “Oh.”

            “So,” he says. 

            “So.”

            “Can I show you something?”

            “Of course.”

The old man grabs my hand and leads me outside the front door.  The sun is rising.  The man’s hand feels like smooth paper, his fingerprints have been worn away from all the years of hand washing and handholding.  Finger rubbing.  He leads me slowly and shakily to a field of yellow flowers.  He tells me to be quiet, very quiet and we crouch on the ground to spy.  There, in the field, lays a young girl with foxtails buried in a nest of tangled hair.  She is bare foot and overall wearing and fingernail biting.  She just looks at the sky, not thinking about anything and not feeling pressured to think about anything. 

“I sometimes feel pressured to think about things,” I tell the old man.  “And to be interesting all the time.”

“That’s ok,” he tells me.

“Thanks.” 

A boy whose hair matches the flowers perfectly is lying next to this girl.  She tells him this.  “Your hair is as yellow as the flowers.”

The boy smiles.

“The boy takes that to mean she loves him.”  The old man tells me.  “She doesn’t, but she doesn’t correct the assumption.  She likes that he loves her.”

“Which is understandable,” I say.

“The boy is a year older than she is and wants to take her everywhere and show her everything.”

“How do you know all that?” I ask the old man.

“Because that little boy is me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

  The boy tells the girl to come with him because there is something he really wants to show her.  He grabs her hand, tries to hold it but she lets go and says that she’d rather just lay there, feeling the sun on her arms and dusty knees.  The boy says okay because he wants whatever she wants.  He puts flowers in her hair and watches them grow and tells her they are going to get married when they get old enough to understand what marriage is.  She tells him that they are probably not going to get married.  He tells her she is mistaken, she is just too young, she doesn’t understand.  She doesn’t say, I know we won’t because I don’t love you.  She doesn’t say anything. 

“The boy thought she meant, ok you’ve convinced me.”

“Did she?”

“No.”  The man softly cries into the dirt and it turns to mud and I run away because it is too sad and I hate seeing old people cry and I hate thinking that when I’m old I may have regrets and still think about sad childhood things too.  I run and a boy starts running beside me.

“Let’s get some breakfast.”

“Ok.”

We hop into his car and drive to a gas station. There is nothing but this gas station, the road, the yellow lines on the road, and fields of umber grass – or are they reeds – on either side of the road.  The road goes on forever.  Desolate, is what I would call it.  There aren't even telephone poles.  I debate with myself.  Do I want gum?  Or is it too expensive?  The boy in the car honks the horn.  "Do I want gum or is it too expensive?” I ask.

“Buy it yourself.”

            “I wasn’t asking you to buy it for me.”

            “Well you wanted me to offer.”

            “True.”

            “And I didn’t, not because I don’t want to spend the money, but because I want to teach you a lesson.  When you want something, just ask for it.  Don’t pussyfoot around.”

            “Sorry.  Ok.”  He throws me a quarter, but I don’t get gum.  I feel too guilty now.  I walk over to the gas dispenser.  It is a red plastic jug with one of those yellow and black stickers on it.  I put the quarter in the slot at the top and watch it fall into the gas.  It stays suspended in the liquid, floating for a second and then slowly makes its way down to the bottom where it gets spit back at me.  I get frustrated and give up.

            “It’s done, Hannah,” the boy says.  He has forgiven me.

            “Can you call me Heather right now?  This scene is feathery.”

            We drive and he drops me off because I don’t want breakfast, but I want to take a walk through this desert landscape.  I’m not in a desert, but it looks like one and I want to take advantage of such a rare occurrence.  I take off my shoes and feel the dirty dust covering my feet.  Everything is orange.  I look all around me and there is nothing but orange sand and footprints.  I crunch the sand with my heels and appreciate the sound.  I love satisfying sounds.  I walk into the middle of the expanse, or what I have guessed is the middle – there is no way to know for sure – and I find an old newspaper from the year my mother was born.  It is old looking and brown and makes a good, crackling sound when you turn the pages.  Rustic, is what I would call it.  I cry on it, not because I’m sad, but because it’s beautiful.  The ink smears a story about a drought and another story with the word “paining” in the title, which now looks like the word “painting”.  And I like that.  My tears hit the sand and the spots of moisture grow into large puddles and fish salt water fish swim happily inside them.  An old thirsty couple walks by and asks me if they can have a drink.  I tell them it’s salty, and they keep going. 

“Have a nice walk,” I say.

“Have a nice sit.”

“I will.”

I lay down and cover my face with the newspaper to shield my eyes from the sun.  The sun is bright and hot and I fall asleep quickly underneath it.  The heat wraps tightly around me like a thick blanket, only it’s warmer than that.  Birds sing and I can hear my mom calling to tell me dinner is ready, but I am not hungry.  I just had breakfast.