The hill had ears… it knew all our secrets… it
listened to us sharing them... we knew it did… because of the winds… it was
windy up there… almost always... noisy winds... but it would hush up when any
of us opened up to the others about something… it liked secrets… we didn’t mind
the transgression… we knew our secrets would be safe with it… it wouldn’t let
the winds carry them away to people who weren’t supposed to know them… we
trusted it like we trusted each other.
The ride up there was not easy. Halfway up we
had to get off and then walk the rest of the slope pushing our bicycles along.
We didn’t remember why we started going up there. There was nothing up there.
An old tree… so old it didn’t have any leaves. It had strong roots though… part
of which was above the ground. We would lie down and rest in the little cradles
between the large branching roots once we reached there. No one would talk for
a while. We would listen to what the winds were saying… and they had a lot to
say. They’d tell us about the other people who went up there. They said a man
would come on Sundays. He’d drink toddy and cry and curse. It was where he used
to meet with his lover… long before any of us were even born. They didn’t
marry… she died… before he could ask her. But he still came here… remembering…
grieving… drinking… forgetting.
The hill had immense wisdom. It knew
thousands of stories. It was there for thousands of years. It had met thousands
of people. People who found time to go up there and tell their stories… like
us. It taught us about love, loyalty, lust, longing and a lot of things. It
taught us to fly. Once we were done listening to its stories and done telling
it ours, we would take our bicycles to where the downslope began. We’d get on
and then look down at our village. The winds would caress our faces… telling us
not to worry… not to be scared if we’d fall. It’d tell us to let go… and we
would. Kicking off the ground we’d race downhill… so fast that our heartbeats
would echo in our head… so fast that people who saw us would call us crazy… and
reckless. But they didn’t know what it felt like to fly… they didn’t… they were
too old for that… we weren’t. When we sped down the hill on our bicycles, the
wind lifted us off the ground into its arms like it did with the birds… and
we’d fly.
