For my sister, Allyson.

“Special Mark” is a bittersweet reflection on our childhood bond with the natural world, written a few years after my sister received a deep cut that healed into a unique, natural tattoo on her upper backside. The mud was our playground, especially after fresh rain. We ran through storms, letting the heaviest downpour soak us as we played, danced, and shaped the clayish mud into little toys and treasures only children could imagine.

Our mud was clean and beautiful, brownish or reddish clay, so it was no surprise that children growing up in my era, in my yard, took pleasure in embracing the mud during and after the rain. In a few days after the rain stops, and the blazing sun clears away the clouds, the mud would turn creamy and then hard, causing different creativity. 

One unforgettable day in our teenage years, my third sister and I joined in the thrill of mudslides. A successful ride hinged on securing a sturdy branch that could support your weight as you raced down the hill. If you were lucky, like some of the other kids, you might have found a discarded piece of shiny vinyl carpet, perfect for gliding through the mud. During one of our mud skating adventures, my sister lost control, slipping off her makeshift sledge. Whether it was a branch or a scrap of carpet, I can’t quite recall. She tumbled hard, landing on a jagged rock or exposed root that cut into her backside, leaving a permanent mark—a lifelong “tattoo” from the wild, carefree days of our youth.

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Special Mark

Can you remember? 

The times you played beneath the sugar golden apple trees, 

Feet skimming over its over-ripe leaves, 

Each step pressed deeper into the thirsty earth. 

Can you remember? 

The times you played beneath its green shade, 

Leaping, laughing, crushing its delicate whispers, 

Dipping them into the creamy mud 

Like secret treasures meant to bloom. 

Wishing, waiting— 

For the fruit that would make your heart sing. 

But the season was not yet. 

Still, you gazed up high, 

Just waiting. 

And waiting became a game. 

Until the earth bit back. 

Its teeth kissed your skin, 

And only your tears flowed, 

Watering the wound— 

A special mark of childhood. 

by jjf’25

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Thanks for reading! 😊