In the Forest

She spoke no Spanish, and only a little English. I spoke both, but no French. Her realm was that of Parisian cafes and refined apartments. Mine was the rustic graveled mountainsides of Mediterranean Spain. Still, the dissonance of culture and language is nothing more in a child’s world than a speed bump. It is only the wisdom of adulthood that grows the difference into an impassable roadblock.

And so, slowly, methodically, through a medley of gestures and single words (often repeated), we created for ourselves an imaginary world. In mine, fairies inhabited the lacy undergrowth of the Alpine forests—I was, of course, their queen. I skipped and flapped my arms. Fly, I would say slowly, clearly. Volar. I never knew for certain what existed in her world. Perhaps we were dragons, or butterflies, or birds. It didn’t matter, really. Under the French sun, we skipped and flapped our wings, touching down to earth just long enough to smell the wildflowers before dancing off in flight once more.

At night, as the stars began to scatter across the open canvas of the country sky, we waved to one another. Good night. Bonne nuit. We fell asleep in our respective beds, cradled in the glow of friendship that needs neither words nor commonality.

The next day, we met beneath the bending branches of the tall trees. Marins, she said. She rocked on her feet, swaying back and forth. She paddled imaginary waters with her hands. I nodded. Sailors, I said. We took to the high seas, scanning the horizon for enemy ships. We weathered storms in our battered vessel, tossed about by the raucous waves. We took turns walking the plank, resigned to our watery fates. We collapsed, exhausted, on the warm shores of some distant island, known only to the two of us, and never by name.

That night we were lulled to sleep by the distant song of the ocean, calling to each of us in our native tongue.

On the third morning, we met by the trickling stream that flowed through the woods. Last day, I said sadly. She nodded enthusiastically, bending to untie her shoes. Last day, I repeated. She smiled. I shrugged and kneeled on the mossy bank. I slipped off my shoes and socks and joined her in the water. Its icy coolness made my legs ache. The moss-covered rocks were slippery beneath my feet. Comme ça, she said. She held her arms out in the air, carefully stepping from large rock to large rock. I followed her; my own arms extended like a tightrope walker. We hopped our way back and forth across the stream, the cool water numbing our feet.

Splash, I said. I stepped to the middle of the brook, where the water was deepest. I kicked my foot as hard as I could in front of me, sending a glistening shower of water onto the opposite shore. Oui, oui! she squealed, joining me. We laughed and kicked until our clothes were soaked through and we had stopped feeling cold.

My mother appeared at the edge of the forest. She gestured solemnly. It was time.

I go, I said. I patted my chest, and made my fingers walk. Goodbye. Adios. I waved, sadly.

She stopped mid-kick. Goodbye? she repeated in English. Au revoir?

I nodded. Au revoir. My heart felt as heavy as my wet clothing.

She waved, I waved again. I turned slowly to join my mother. I had nearly reached the edge of the trees when I stopped suddenly.

Your name, I called. You never told me your name!

She looked at me, quizzically.

I put a hand to my chest. I am Amy, I said. Amy, I repeated.

Understanding dawned in her face. She nodded. Placing her hand on her own chest, she said, Leticia.

Goodbye, Leticia, I waved.

Au revoir, Amy, she replied.

I turned and walked away, assured of a friendship that would always remain, somehow, deep in a wordless French forest; the space between two worlds.