Mint. I remember her hair always smelled of mint, not the candy or gum, but the sweet almost acrid smell of wild mint. The same long, dark hair with just a hint of red in it, if the light caught it just right. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my then fourteen years. She came from a 'traditional' family. They lived way out by the railroad tracks, out past the Old Mission, maybe a little east. Her father's name was Swimmer. But he was gone, I didn't know if he had died, or if her parents had split up, but she and her sister and her mother lived by themselves, with no man in the house. She was my crush, the one who got away, the one I pined for on lonely angst filled nights of teenage adoration. She knew me, always called me by my last name, which irritated me in a way, but also intrigued me. The way she would half smile as she let the name roll off of sad lips, lips that always seemed to turn downwards, even as she smiled. Which only intrigued me more. She knew of my interest in her. At times, she even would throw a coy look my way, as if she was feigning interest, only to distance herself as I moved towards her circle that she drew around herself. She began dating one of my best friends as we turned sixteen. That was pure hell. Life went on, she married and went to work, divorced, had a child, and I lost all knowledge of her except for the memory of sad lips and mint in the air. I saw her once, about eleven years ago, my wife and I walking into a shop in my home town as she was coming out. I instantly recognized her, the smell of mint flooding my senses and momentarily confusing me, to the point I dropped the hand of my wife, just as the scent of mint passed by and in a half smile, she said "hello" and called me by my last name. Last week, I listened to an Elder describe in detail the story of how our people's traditions were in danger of being lost. I bent forward with intense deliberation on her words, her desire to save this last little bit she had always known might be lost once she stepped over. Double twilled cane baskets on the table, on display for the group, and I paused to pick one up and then another, and then another, examining the artistry and diligence of the work. This one smelled of mint. I pulled the basket to my face and breathed in the sweet biting scent of mint, for a moment unsure of the memory. And then I heard my last name. I turned and there she was, with that half smile on downturned sad lips. The traditionalist. Who would never be allowed to go with a boy who was so untraditional, he didn't even know they were of the same clan, and therefore, forbidden to date. Her name is on the bottom of the basket. The one on my cupboard that smells of mint. |
Mint
© Michael Walkingstick - 2003
gathered from the net
"Maiden of the Wood" midi courtesy of élan michaels bead bar courtesy of Greasy Grass