Even before we had packed the first box for Virginia, Dad—the only one who had seen the new house—had eagerly related that the new property had a stream.

Much to Mom’s dismay, he couldn’t describe the kitchen or the living room or really anything about the house, but he provided ample details about the things important to us kids—the yard, the garage, the shed, the barn, and the stream.

As soon as we were permitted, Missi and I struck off on long, rambling explorations of the three acres of pasture, meadows, woods, and stream. Naturally, the stream was one of our first targets, and Dad had told us it was just past the barn. We found that the tree-lined near bank of the stream was a forbiddingly steep tangle of dense undergrowth and thorns so, looking for a better approach, we crossed the low wooden footbridge to the meadow across the stream.

I never once crossed that bridge without delighting in the very fact that we had a bridge; the luxury almost felt excessive, yet it was there and it was ours.

A quick left after the bridge led us along a meandering tree line that suddenly broke, and we could approach the stream from the grassy field that gently sloped down to the chuckling water.

I already loved water. The cold lakes in Minnesota where my grandparents lived, abounding in loons and lily pads, the Gulf from Corpus Christi with its plethora of blue jelly fish—mysterious, dangerous, compelling. But I was unprepared for the magic of a stream in spring.

Winking at us in the sunlight, the stream murmured a knowing welcome. Cavorting its way around the bend at our feet, it rippled over rounded, moss-lined stones, rollicked around slick, exposed roots, and splashed mischievously down a series of step-like stones. Overhead fresh green leaves were unfolding, and delicate yellow catkins hung heavy with pollen from every branch.

On both banks, clustered in wild profusion, were violets. Rising above last year’s crumbling leaves, the delicate purple flowers swayed gently on stems that seemed too frail to tether them to earth. It felt as if they were about to take flight.

We had never seen anything so beautiful as a congregation of violets attending a stream in the full triumph of spring. In reverent yet exuberant whispers we shared our wonder.

We had stumbled into fairyland.

Missi and I could spend entire afternoons with the fairies.

Under their gentle, reserved gaze, we collaborated on projects from dam building to debris clearing and we collected blue glass insulators that had been half-buried in the stream bed. I loved the feeling of being alone and yet together, working independently yet alongside each other in a common purpose with a shared plan.


I always felt deeply aware of the fairies even after the violets had faded for the year; I felt them observing me, being glad of me, approving of me, rejoicing in me.

After she began boarding her horse with us, our neighbor Ms. Edmister gave me a pair of black rubber riding boots that she had found secondhand. They became my prized possession. I rarely used them for riding, but I would pull them on whenever I visited fairyland, as we forever referred to our wonderful stream access carpeted in violets.

I was a different person in my sleek riding boots than in my soggy tennis shoes. The sound of my boots on the bridge was the sound of confidence. They allowed me to wade—no, to tromp—in the stream unrestricted. I could build dams, clear debris, dig for crayfish. Do anything I wanted to. They were freedom. In my boots I felt strong, capable, unstoppable.

In later years I have returned to this. As I grew older, my family adopted a conservative dress code that meant our family stood out everywhere we went. It meant I was uncomfortable everywhere I went.

I was often chided on this point. Clothes aren’t important and what people think isn’t important. Clothes certainly shouldn’t make you feel better or worse or even differently about yourself. Why are you anxious about this? Consider the lilies.

I considered the lilies. But I also considered the violets. Why did a pair of hand-me-down rubber boots with a mud-stained and fraying lining give me such confidence? And why did long, loose dresses make me ashamed to exist?

One was practical and made me feel ready for anything. No one—especially me—could doubt. This is a girl who is prepared. This is a girl who is resourceful. This is a girl who can do things. The other made me feel trapped. Useless. Harmful. Flawed. Crippled. Smothered for my own protection.

It was much more than socially embarrassing, though that certainly was painful. Most agonizing was the core betrayal of my personhood. My body had become more important than who it housed. And covering my body was more important than using it.

Consider the violets and dress accordingly.

Violets grew elsewhere on our property.

Near the barn, they grew in the shadow of wild rhubarb and juniper. I would visit these fairies as well, but not to do anything. Just to be with them.

Still and silent myself, I would partake of their quiet. Under the hum of gnats congregating in the shade, beneath the wind in the branches above, their silence greeted me while their self-possession drew me in. Hushed and glad, we were together and that was enough.

Violets also grew in sparse patches at the edges of the packed dirt floor of our workshop behind the garage, but somehow, they felt different. These violets, while beautiful, were not the same. They seemed placed as a sign and a symbol of the real violets that grew by the stream and under the rhubarb. They were just a reminder. They were bodies without souls, beautiful but empty. Signifying much but with no meaning of their own.

I walked the property one final time. I was saying goodbye but also saying please remember me. The house had been sold. We had always known the spell would end.

I ended my circuit by slowly passing the sumacs and then our workshop with its sprinkling of violets, the shed, and finally the garage. I felt an ache, a burning in my throat. I didn’t want to go. But even more, I wanted to be remembered. When I left Texas, I had gathered maple seeds. This time, I didn’t want to take something with me; I wanted to leave something behind.

As I stood on the slab of concrete before the garage door, I thought of how people sometimes made handprints in wet cement when they laid a foundation. It seemed a weak memorial but at least it would be something.

I wanted the people who came after me to know I had been here. To know who I was. I wanted to make visible the connection I felt between me and this place. Here I had been known and accepted and loved. This couldn’t be the end. Yet I could think of nothing permanent.

I considered scratching a tree with my initials, but I loved each tree too much for that. I felt a visceral need to be remembered, but I didn’t want to cause harm. I was too small to build a monument and I was out of time.

I laid a handful of violets on the stoop and turned away.