THE MIRROR: WARMED IN THE SUN

BY SAMANTHA JENSEN

I smell blackberries ripening in the perfect afternoon, when I close myeyes and remember early childhood. My best friend, a pure white pitbull, Bosshog trotted next to me as I picked them on one side of our driveway.

Along with the blackberries, I was comfortably surrounded by majestic evergreen giants, the California redwoods. These ancestors looked over me while Bosshog and I ran freely. Me, scavenging for pine cones, and Bosshog trying to catch an ever-elusive squirrel — looking confused until it found safety in the high branches. To this day, I feel completely at home in an evergreen forest.

One afternoon, when I came back to the house, I could smell the tension, thick and electric. Even at four years old, I knew something was not right. I heard the adults whispering around me. I was not able to understand their words. I see our household being put into boxes, a rush in the air.

I ask, “Where is my Mom?” And the unexpected response: “In the
hospital — she’s been shot.”

“Where are Denny and Wayne?” (Mom’s boyfriend and his two-year-old son). And the reply, “He left because he was the one who shot her.” As an adult, I never understand why Denny was not arrested for this. It
was later explained that drugs were involved in his life, and he had
been murdered.

My grandma told me we were moving to her house in Oregon. The thoughts of the stressed, young brain of a child: Why are there boxes?
A million more questions ran through my brain. Why are we leaving all I love? What about my toys and Bosshog? I had never lived in a city. Will there still be trees?

After a three-day hospital stay, my mom was released — not all the buckshot could be removed. With Mom still healing, our trip to Oregon was underway. The drive escapes my memory. I remember that Bosshog bit the UPS driver and was put to sleep before we left. I now wonder if he was reacting to all the stress.

Weeks later, I lay in the hammock in Granny’s backyard looking up at the trees. This becomes my favorite spot for my whole childhood. I notice a milder sun shining down. The trees don’t smell the same, and they are not as big, but the sun-warmed blackberries in the yard take me back. No matter how much time passes. | SJ