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42 Circle by Shirley Crace Hughes I want to cross the branch today and go to the cemetery at the top of the mountain . There is a wide open bare spot, a place where no trees will grow, a natural mountain meadow, and I want to go there. I want to climb to the top of the mountain through laurel thickets and brambles, and go among the thick oaks and beeches. I want to see my mother today. It is a long walk. If I leave at first light I will be there by midday heat. But I must find the trail there by myself. There will be no rattlesnakes or copperheads in my road today-or if there are they will be peaceful and so will I. I am about to visit my mother. I start up the branch, the cold spring branch, and I am glad I can feel the icy water on my bare feet. My feet cling to the slippery rocks and the water swirls about my ankles as I make my way toward the head of the branch. I am adrift in memories as I go among the low hanging limbs, memories of Mother in the kitchen, or peeling potatoes on the back stoop. I can see her sitting there, her skirts tucked up around her legs, her feet bare and wide, and calloused on the bottom. Her hands are small and kind of knotty looking and tanned brown by the garden sun. Her head is bent and I wonder what she is thinking. But I didn't wonder then. I just wonder now. While Mama was here with me I never considered she had dreams and hopes, or that she might have regrets about the path she chose. I never even realized then she had a path, nor that there might have been more than one path. She was just there for me. I never questioned it. And I had no way of knowing if she ever questioned it. Minnows move around my feet and ankles, darting here, then there, and in shallow pools pollywogs swim-wiggle. There are small inviting beaches along the way, sunny and sandy, but I won't stop today. Maybe some other day. Today I have too much on my mind to sit or dawdle along the way. Today I must get to Mother. Pretty soon after the pools of fishes and frogs, I leave the branch and start up the dim trail. It is dim for it has been a long time since the trail was last used. And it's been still longer since I've been over it. It's been long enough. The way is narrow and winds over rocks and tree roots but I know I am on the right path, so I just keep going. A small sparrow 43 throws back his head and warbles a pretty song as I go among the mountain laurel, cool and shady, and familiar to me yet. Cool, sweet woodsy smells fill me up, and I feel like I'm home again. My feet feel at home on the path, wet skirts sticking to my legs. I am thinking of Mother and the time she went berry picking over in Creek's troller. I can see her yet with her sunbonnet pulled over her head, shading her face and plastering her hair to her head, grown curls sticking out the bottom. It was terrible hot that day and sticky too. But Mama said the berries were ripe and we must go. We left the house at early morn to beat the heat, but the sun was already warming up the valley where we walked. Cows were flicking their tails at flies, and calves lay in the shade of fencerows. My dress was feeling damp and sticky around my waist, and a sheen of sweat gathered above my lip. The back of my neck was hot and I wished I had remembered to tie my hair back, it felt prickly against my skin. Mother walked a little ahead of me as I dawdled in the shade. I was in no hurry to get to the berry patch. The...

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