It is lush, late June in southern Ohio, and the moist scent of freshly mown grass abounds. I am thirteen years old, serious for my age. With Baron, my German shepherd pup by my side, my fingers dawdle in the grass–feeling the crisp edges–then the soft blanket of it all. I watch the cloud formations, searching for animal shapes. There, finally, a puffy white elephant! Triumphant, I add it to my mental tally.
Then, a distinct feeling floods my body that all of this—the dog I had begged for, my freedom from school for three whole months, animal clouds—all of this is not enough. Who and what am I? What is the purpose of my life? Although I have no language to describe what or how I know, I know that I know there is more. More, and deeper.
© Skye Blaine, 2011