“Naivete”
A micro memoir by Kaden Judge (11).
The day was filled with light and laughter. The bright yellow light seemed to stretch on for acres and acres. The scene was still, too still. If anyone was looking from a distance, the scene would look ethereal, almost like a painting. But if you were in the idyllic scene, it would become less idyllic.
The Indian air was dry and there was no breeze to soothe the trees or the people walking on the land. Even the birds wanted no part in this motionless affair, hiding from the sweltering heat. The workers of the farm had been given a day off from the raging sun. The long stalks were rooted in the deep soil along with thousands of memories. The white, feathery parts of the plants were drooping, almost as if they were afraid of the light green stalks that absorbed heat. From an aerial view, the fields were covered in powdered white as a contrast to the dirt roads. Almost like a painting. The only streak of color was the bright red kurta two young girls were wearing. Both girls were accompanied by an older woman in a dusty pink sari. She was guiding them to one of the long rows of cotton. She carefully demonstrated how to pull the cotton off of the stalk and put it in the dust colored basket.
Eagerly, the girls began to do the exact same thing, but with more fervor. To them this seemed like a fun, once in a lifetime activity, their innocence and naivety making this seem like an adventure, not their real life. And in a way, it was. Eventually, they would go back to the place with the rusted red bridge. They would go back to paved roads, drinkable tap water, and milk from a plastic jug. They would go back to the place of education for all people, regardless of income or gender. Eventually this would be a fun childhood memory for them, maybe even a forgotten memory.
The sisters kept on running to the filled cotton stalks, running as fast as their little legs would allow them, their two braids swinging in the stifling air. Their grandmother followed at a slow, even pace, not once cracking a smile at her grandchildren's laughable simpleness. She later stopped to teach them another technique, showing them how there was fruit also growing on the long cotton stalks and how the outside of the fruit was light green in color and the inside was pink, like cotton candy. How once you popped the fruit in your mouth, the texture would be fluffy, like a cloud. The fruit tasted sweet, but not so sweet that you would get sick of it. Whether the name of the fruit was mentioned or not, the girls do not remember. The girls began picking the fruits as well as the cotton in excitement over discovering something brand new.
The small group moved down the stalks, until the mother yelled for the party of three to come inside. The girls went inside, savoring the last bite of the fluffy sweet fruit that they would always remember. And as they finally finished the last bite, they both knew. They knew that this would be a treasured memory. They would never forget the whole other world they discovered here. They knew that they would not need to be reminded of this every 3 years. Unlike their aunt's names, they would remember this. And the grandmother knew that she would not forget her grandchildren. She would never forget them while she was living, and would never forget them even in death.