Going Back

My mind kept running around today, much like the rest of me. I kept drifting between statistics and memories; child development and my own childhood. For some reason I found myself sitting on a porch in upstate New York, my arms wrapped around my big black dog, grass stains on my knees that no amount of scrubbing would ever take away.

My parents, my dog Candy, and I were in upstate New York for a family reunion. I was seven years old. My father was still very alive. We were all still very alive.

We stayed in a KOA, in a cabin with a huge front porch. I remember the bunk beds. They put me on the top bunk, upon my insistance. Candy had to sleep tied to the front porch, because dogs weren't allowed in the cabins.

I remember the sun, how warm the sun was then. Even the nights were comfortable, like a warm hug. There was a creek running near the cabins where the little kids would play. I remember laying on my back in the shallow creek, pebbles all along my back and between my toes. The water was like bath water, but it felt so good between my fingers, splashing in the sunlight, making the grass stick to me when I rolled around with Candy.

Daddy taught me how to make a s'more on that trip. He held me when the four of us sat by the fire at night. My mallow lit on fire and he quickly blew it out, but it was already burnt. Even now, though, I can't eat marshmallows that aren't burnt. They're only delicious if they have a layer of burnt mallow on the outside.

Every morning I would get up early, jump down from the bunk, open the door and lay on the porch with Candy. We were best friends. She still is my best friend in many ways. You only have a first dog once. Candy never bit me, never even nipped me. We would have races in the back yard. She always seemed to know what I meant when I said "on your mark, get set go!" because she would bolt as soon as I said go. When I was little I would hang on her neck, dress her in my girl scout uniform and force her to be the mom and I would be the dad when we played house. Candy never objected to the attention I gave her, to the little brown vests I put on her. She seemed to be the most content when she was laying on the living room floor and I would rest my head on her chest and the two of us would fall asleep. My head would rise and fall with her breathing, and I would drift off to sleep with my fingers running through her thick black fur.

When she got older and I could actually beat her in a race, I knew her racing days were over. I was fifteen when she stopped running with me. I was sixteen when I had to carry her to the car, her head resting on my shoulder, her dry nose nuzzling my neck. I was sixteen when I had to lift my best friend up with my own two hands and my own two arms, to look into her deep brown eyes, to lay my head on her chest one last time. My head rose and fell on her chest one last time, and I ran my fingers through her tear streaked fur.

But when my mind wanders, I'm usually nowhere near the classroom, I'm usually far from the four walls of my dorm. I'm laying on a porch in upstate New York, my head resting on Candy's chest, rising and falling, my hand buried in her fur, grass stains streaking my skin. I smell like fire, and muddy water, and worms. Candy smells like dirt, and smoke, and wet dog. We're still seven years old, the world still begins and ends with what Mom puts on our plates, how late we will be able to stay outside, what games daddy is going to play with us.

When I think on it, I can go back, and everyone is still so alive. I wish I could really go back.