The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2018

La Roca James Tomlin My family had crammed into our blue Ford Explorer and traveled six hours to see “The Biggest Tree” in the world, found in the forests of Northern California. When we had finally gotten out of the car, we found trees larger than any building I had seen in my young life. The bark strips that littered the floor were larger than my ten-year-old feet. My brother sat, trying not to talk lest his pubescent voice be mocked. I played with my Batman action figure against the goliath trees. “Super heroes are just people, son. Never forget that,” my dad said, his voice stern and calm in the same breath. I ignored him as Batman swung from branch to branch hunting down Gorilla Grodd. After the tour guides and bird watching, my family decided to go swimming in a nearby river. At least that’s what they said it was. Its size was an ocean of chaotic water that flowed with intensity — each rock we threw never reached halfway across. The water so deep I pondered the existence of a monster lying in the darkness of the water. Above us the birds, the names of which I had already forgotten, chirped happily in the spring air. The water was cool in the California sun. My mother and father sat on the rocky shore arguing about something. Her voice was shrill, like a harpy, against his voice. He spoke to her like a trainer would speak to his lion. Every time he spoke I pictured his hands up in front of him trying to calm a savage beast. My brother and I were playing in the water. The river was too strong to swim in, so we had found natural pool in the river, the water stagnant and safe. The thundering force of the river against the rocks was almost deafening. My brother was five years older than me and his body was littered with acne, an unfortunate flaw I never failed to remind 92 The Meadow