The Stitches of the World

Grandma never claimed the stream behind her house could make you live forever, but she did believe it would make you live longer than most. I am not sure even as a kid I fully believed her. But when we celebrated her 103^rd birthday, those stories did not sound as grand as they once did. Of course, the claim of the miraculous potency of the dirty stream was mild compared to most of what she told me those summers of my early years. I cannot remember nearly half of it, but I recall something about the stream being one of the last “stitches of the world” left.

As Grandma told it, God did not so much make the world as nit it together. “With fire and water, the great Maker stitched the world together from floating pieces of reality. Eventually they faded away — or were lost. But not this one. This one is a tough son of a bitch. This one didn’t want to fit right. The rocks here don’t mesh. Had a hell of a fight long before the Maker tried to put ‘em together. Can’t make things fit that don’t want to fit. All the other stitches mended years ago — but not this one. Never will, far as I’m concerned.”

“Can’t God just make them get along?” I would ask.

“He ain’t much in the making business if you know what I mean. He prefers to let and tell. Woo might be puttin’ it better. He’s such a romantic!”

“Has he told them to get along?”

“Every damn day and night. He’s even tried pushing them, counseling them, and kicking ‘em. It never does much good. They’re stubborn.”

“I didn’t realize rocks were that persistent,” Mom said once with a smirk on her face. She never much believed the stories.

“That’s why the’re rocks! They’re hard and unmoving. Makes ‘em strong willed. Ever heard of having a hard heart? Rocks have the hardest of them all.”

The tale certainly did not match up with what Ms. Kelly told me in Sunday School– but Grandma was a much better storyteller than Ms. Kelly. A lot of it went over my head, but I took Grandma’s side on that one.

I don’t think I ever drank the water, but we spent enough time around it – and I was young enough – that I might have given it a try at one point or another. At the very least, we played in it enough that a fair amount had certainly splashed in my mouth to make it efficacious for long life. On my bad days, I am not so sure if that is a good thing. Especially considering the way I saw long life wear on Grandma.

Her mind never ceased to the very end – I believe that. But her body was tired and brittle since the day I met her. While I never had to care for her in her weakest days, Mom assured me that old age was nothing more than pain and agitation feigning as achievement. Grandma hung on to life despite the protests of her body. She never said a word her last two years. I firmly believe it was not because of lack of ability but simply because she had finally said everything she wanted to say.

She died yesterday – at an unpleasant 107.

I choose not to remember the Grandma I knew over the last two decades. I am not entirely sure who that was, but it was not the Grandma I knew in my first years of life. Despite her frailty we would often walk with her around the property in the mornings and evenings when it was cool.          

It is strange to walk around Grandma’s property now without her presence. Mom had tried desperately for years to put her in a home but the last time she had brought it up Grandma sat in her rocking chair with her shotgun for two days straight. She had finally relented to allow a nurse to check on her once a week but otherwise Mom was her only caregiver in these last years. It was more of a sacrifice than I will ever know, but I think what made it possible for her to do it was the conviction that somehow Grandma was tied to this place. Removing her from it would not have only been dangerous to your health, it would almost feel like ripping the fabric of the world. Even now I can sense Grandma’s presence in this place. I do not believe in ghosts – and, despite all her strange ideas, neither did Grandma. It is not spiritual, but somehow and someway Grandma’s presence is fixed in this place. Come to think of it, I do not have a single memory of her from any other location. Not from church. Not from a restaurant. Not even from the grocery store.

My first memory of the stream was when I was no more than six years old. I doubt it was my first time there. But this was the first time I was able to climb the hill myself (though I am sure Grandma kept me from falling more than once.) We sat down, took off of our socks, and placed our feet in the cool water. Few words were exchanged. We just felt the sand between our toes and listened to the chirping of the birds. The sky was a bright blue with a few wisps of white cloud. The sun was out somewhere offering us warmth but the tall pines kept the clay from getting particularly hot.

I don’t remember exactly what had happened, but Grandma and Mom had gotten into a fight about something. Mom had left — or holed herself in her room, I can’t quite remember what. But I had been rather upset by the whole thing (six years had not given me enough samples of this type of behavior for me to yet know that this was normal for her.) That spurred Grandma to take me on the walk.

“Nothing like fresh air to dry tears,” Grandma often said.

But I think what makes that memory stick out was it was one of the few times I remember hearing Grandma sing. She sat there with her toes buried in the sand of the stream and looked into the sky. Her long, grey hair blew in the wind as she opened her mouth and let her voice flow along with the wind and stream.

“Take me far beyond the sea,

And I will ne’er again dream.

Because I will be with thee

And then I shall ever be.

Just take me, with you, take me!”

Maybe it was just because I was six and a poor judge of musical ability, but I remember Grandma’s voice to be the most beautiful I ever heard. In the silence that followed, it was almost as if her voice continued to echo in the trees and a refrain followed — though I could not make out the words.

“What song is that?” I finally asked.

“The only song,” She replied. “The only song ever written — and the only one that ever will be.” She then smiled and looked in my eyes, “And did you hear the other song?”

“What other song?”

“The reply. Every song has a reply. We just are too far away from the heart of the world to hear it.”

“And what did the reply say?”

Grandma sighed deeply. I was still too young to fully understand everything expressed in that sigh, but there was a sad story to it. That much I know.

“I am not sure — but it was there. And for now that will be enough.”

I usually think of Grandma as a kind but hard woman. But on that day I believe I saw her as she really was: beautiful, kind, sad, but mostly longing. She longed for something more. She hoped. She dreamed. She sang, “Take me.”

As I made my way up the hill this morning I was surprised just how steep it was. I realize now why Grandma would always say, “You won’t actually die climbing it, but if you do it ‘oft enough your legs are liable to shoot your ass.”

How did I ever make my way up here as a kid? Why did I even put in the effort? There were plenty of other places to play. There was a a slow moving river just up the road that provided a better swimming hole. The stream offered little more than refreshment. Yet something always drew me to the stream. It still does.

I could not hear the trickling water until I crested the hill. From there it was less than a five minute walk before I reached it.

It was shallower than I remember. The water wouldn’t reach halfway to my knees if I were to dare brave the cold to step in it. Come to think of it, I had never been here this early in the year. Everything was far greener and damper than I had ever seen it. The water trickling by me had probably been snow from the mountain only hours prior.

Despite the clearness of the water, the rising sun provided me a reflection of my unshaven face. I’m not sure why but the sight made me spit carelessly into the stream. I told myself it was because there was something in my mouth — a bug or maybe a pine needle. But it was just a natural reaction to what I was seeing. That was when the cold really set in. The sun raced behind a cloud and the breeze offered its opinion by slipping down my neck into my shirt. I shook my shoulders as the chill went down my spine. I am not sure who — or what — I was talking to when I said, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” A voice said from the other side of the stream.

I jumped more from the voice than I had from the cool breeze. I thought I was alone — I had never seen anyone by this stream except Grandma. But when I looked up there was a young boy standing on the other side. His shirt was covered in dirt but I imagine it had been white at some point. His jeans were much too big for him but he managed by tying it with a small rope around his waist and rolling the legs up to his knees. His dark hair had likely never seen a comb in his life.

The boy could not have been older than seven but there was something about him that struck me as old. Perhaps it was his ragged attire — but there was a lack of youthfulness that I am accustomed to seeing in kids that age.

“What are you sorry for?” He asked me again.

I stuttered some kind of reply — I don’t even remember now what it was. I doubt he could make it out anyway. He looked at me as if I were a squirrel or chipmunk or some other kind of critter that was trying to speak for the first time.

“I didn’t know anyone else was here,” I finally said once I found my tongue.

“I’m always here,” the boy said.

Now it was my turn to give him a funny look while he just stared at me as if he had said the most natural thing imaginable.

“You live here?” I asked.

“On the other side of the hill.”

I had never been on the other side of the hill — I didn’t even know there was another side! I must have just supposed the hill went on forever as it was. Or maybe I never stopped to consider what lay beyond the stream. Truth be told, I had never set foot on the other side of the water.

“But I spend most of my time walking the stream,” the boy continued. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“My best friend. A girl — about my age. Well, I guess she’s probably a lot older now. But we spent most of our time together when she was my age.”

“How old would you guess this girl is?”

The boy stopped to consider the question. He looked up to the sky as he added the numbers in his head only to supply the unfortunately non-specific, “Old.”

“I see,” I said in an attempt to humor him. “Well I hope you find her.”

I turned to leave — not so much because I was ready to leave but because I wanted to give the odd boy the hint that I was done with the conversation. But he wouldn’t let me go.

“You look a lot like her.”

I stopped. I didn’t turn around to look at him. What was this boy after? This was open hill country — there could not be another home for miles. The chance that two people would stumble upon one another by accident was about as easy to believe as some of Grandma’s stories.

Without turning back to look at him I asked, “How so?”

“Lots of things. Your hair — it’s dark and thin like hers. Same eyes — about as close to matching as you can get. But you’re sad. She was always sad. Always had the same look you do. She didn’t always act sad. But that’s what she was.”

I kept my eyes away from the boy and stream alike. Mom had always said I was a spitting image of Grandma. I took as an insult. It wasn’t because I thought Grandma was ugly but because what little boy wants to be told that they look like an old lady?

“What made her so sad?” I asked as I thought about the look on Grandma’s face and the sigh from her mouth the day she sang, “Take me.” Could this boy be who she was singing to?

“Lots of things.” His answer was subdued. Most of what I had heard him say to this point had a perkiness and quickness to it. But now his voice sounded as if he were searching for just the right words. “I think…mainly she wanted to be over here. On this side of the stream.”

I am not sure why but the boy’s answer to this question pissed me off. I wanted an answer — and this wasn’t it.

“It’s not two feet across!” I snapped as I turned to him. “If she wanted to get across she could hop the damn thing without getting her toes wet.”

The boy looked at me as if I were his age and just could not grasp the concept of basic addition. “Not this stream,” he said. “It’s deeper and wider than it looks.”

“Well did she ever try?”

“Of course — lots of times. But then she gave up.”

I looked down at the stream skeptically. It was hardly deep enough to keep a goldfish alive.

“Give it a try,” he said. It didn’t sound like any kind of challenge or dare. It was an invitation.

“Grandma always called this one of the stitches of the world,” I said with a laugh. Of course, considering the conversation I was having, the story didn’t sound as silly now that I said the words.

“It’s kinda something like that,” the boy said, “But as long as you just sit there and look at it — it’s just water running downhill.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said. Then I figured — what the hell?

I took my shoes and socks off and tossed them against a tree. The dirt was thin and smooth — almost like sand. It sank in between my toes and felt soft and cool.

The first step in the water was every bit as cold as I expected. I gasped as the shockwave jerked up my body. In a moment my teeth were chattering. Almost as a reflex I tried to leap to the other side out of the water.

That was when the Earth opened up beneath me. The stream became an ocean — or it might as well have — and I was in the middle of a vortex. I was plunged deep beneath and before I knew what was happening I was breathing in water. It filled my lungs and I choked and gasped and cried for air. I opened my eyes but darkness was all there was. I tried swimming to the surface but the harder I tried the deeper I sank. Then I felt a hand grab me by the wrist and pull me.

I rose through the water somehow faster than I had sunk. In only a moment I found myself on the other side with the boy. He had pulled me out.

“That wasn’t so hard.” He said with a mischievous grin.

I could have killed him — I really could have. But I was much too frightened and was still trying to catch my breath. My whole body was numb.

“You did what she never could,” he said. “She’d be proud of you.”

“She may be,” I admitted, “But what I want to know now is: how am I going to get back to the other side?”

Again, the boy gave me a funny look. Apparently I am not as bright as most of his company. Eventually he asked: “What other side?”

That was when I noticed the stream was gone. Besides a slight dip in the earth and a bit of damp soil, there was no stream to be seen.

Then I heard the notes of a song start to rise. I cannot be certain, but I believe it was the reply Grandma longed for:

“Take my hand, now, and I’ll lead thee

Out across the open sea.

Simply trust and I’ll take thee

In my arms, you’ll ever be.”