Throwback Thursday: ‘Echo/Narcissus’ by Joelle Kidd

I remember I was chasing you down the long gravel driveway, a steep slant for short, chubby, knobby-knee legs. I remember the bits of gravel, chips of stone were spitting out from under the crunch of our sneakers and bouncing down towards the trees that lined the curving drive. 

I was running, the way kids do, so hard my chest was billowing and folding in. My throat was raw with the cold air from my mouth-breathing and tasted metallic, like blood, behind my tongue. I was getting close to you. I was almost there.

When I saw the back of your yellow T-shirt billow out, it looked like the sun was lifting it into my hand, and I reached out and leaned forward, sure I could catch you but not thinking about what would happen after that. 

I didn’t reach you. Instead my feet hit each other and I could feel the world sliding sideways and away as a shower of gravel sprayed out from under my rubber soles. I toppled and rolled and felt the sting of tiny knives over my skin, little stones etching their way in.

You didn’t know what to do and so stood at the curve of the driveway with your hands at your sides, staring.

I tried to stand but my knees screamed. Tears washed my face, and my wailing sent you running up to the house, calling for help.

It was just ripped-up skin. A torn membrane that let the gravel in.

The doctor picked stones out of my knee with tweezers. He put a Band-Aid over everything and told me don’t cry, it’s not that bad.