Pieces of Time

Next to the coffee mill on the shelf, hanging from a hook, was the wire paddle Mama used to beat the dirt and dust from her rugs. Under Mama's heavy hand, they would fluff up clean again. Climbing on the stool, Anna took it from the hook and dragged it across the floor, punching the back door open with the wire face. The old wood porch creaked as she stepped out. Dogs barked and an old alley cat screeched. Beyond the high board fence, the path through the tall grasses lay hidden in the darkening soup of night. Grandma's old house was out there with kids running all around and a young mother doing her chores. Anna had checked there after Grandma had died just to see for herself if Grandma hadn't returned and gone back to her old home.

She edged to the top step and swung the rug beater out before her.

"You can't get me!" she shouted from the porch. "I'm big and strong!" She jabbed and struck at her fantasy creatures. "Bad man! Dirty, dirty hands! I don't want your candy!" Her weapon swung through the air as she slowly descended into the dark dampness of the yard, scanning for the monsters she was sure hid in the twilight.

Five small rugs draped over a line. She took a deep breath, wound herself up, spinning, spinning, spinning, and lashed out, her bare legs twisting beneath her, knocking her to the ground. The rugs hung untouched, the air sliced inches below.

"Oh, dear," she said lifting her dirty palm. "Mama's going to be mad at me if I don't do this right."

She clamped her teeth on her lip and, looking up, noticed the lamplighter finishing his route down this end of the street. The long torch extended. Light spotted the darkness shining in single file as far as she could see. Her mind ran along their diamond glow all the way to the end of Brooklyn where she could see the stars of the spirit world.

Her shoulders relaxed. She sighed and heard the hawk flying overhead into the field beyond the high board fence. Anna knew he was headed toward the stone boulder, the one with all the "talking cracks." She’d heard it before, a hiss coming from the fissures and then a story coming to her mind, one without words, but she understood the message. An Indian girl lived here long ago. Papa had spoken of the Indian blood they had from the love of Timothy Bennett and an Indian princess. Anna liked that story and asked to hear it many times.

Standing to complete her work, she took a few more swings before trudging back up the steps, stomping the dirt from her shoes.

"All finished!" she announced.