We decided to take a hike up the mountain. We had done it many times before. The air was humid, typical for a mid-summer’s day. I was aggravated because my nan made me wear sweatpants; I was prone to get poison ivy every time I thought about that waxy four-leafed plant.
The mountains called to me, however, and I could complain no longer. We started up the path behind my nan’s house: I knew we were in for an adventure, even if we had to make our own. We passed headstones and plastic flowers on our way, for the graveyard was the path.
Our hike continued in companionable silence most of the time. Eventually we reached the facing of a giant rock formation. We pulled out our rope and pretended to be rock climbers. Once on top, we rested on the edge, looking down on the world we would soon have to re-enter. The orange sun was starting to go down, so we took the fastest route down the mountain. And that was sliding down on our behinds, tons of fallen leaves to cushion.
When we finally reached our destination, which was the faded bluish-gray house, my nan made me wash off, but she should have known sweatpants wouldn’t keep the oil from that fiendish plant off of me. The itch was nothing new to me, so I put anti-itch cream on and tried not to scratch. Of course my cousin didn’t get it. She was always the lucky one when it came to things like that.
PenTherapy 