The town that I grew up in sits on the edge of a
wide river, which flows down our valley until it tumbles out into the Columbia
river basin, sweeping cargo ships over the river mouth and out to sea. It is a
two-hour drive to the ocean but I still feel like I grew up with a sense of its
character, the salty tide that is always changing. The westward wind brings with
it a briny flavor, mixing into the smell of topsoil that pioneers and natives
gave their lives for. Gulls would meet in the field behind my elementary school
when winter storms raged along the beaches. During recess my friends and I
would scatter them, running through the flocks until it felt like we were
letting the birds loose, lifting them from their earthy bonds and returning feathers
to the wind. We thought of ourselves as heroines, and the birds tolerated our
actions.
