Walk Two Moons by Sharon Creech


I know heaps of stories about Salamanca from Walk Two Moons—a hog's belly full. They reside underneath what we don't see: a bare, plaster wall or a hurting friend; a thin envelope on the front porch; a singing tree; a blackberry kiss. Her stories are like fishing in the air. They're hard to summon. They settle in: skipped rocks with ripples bleeding into one another, those stories that are both normal and terrible at the same time. But one day, when the wind whispers: rush, hurry, rush, and tulips are in full bloom, and blackberries are on my tongue, I'll remember the girl with the long black hair who prays to trees and longs for a mother. I'll meet her where the road curves alongside rivers that roll and gargle—or maybe in the sugar maple trees—that girl who was brave and didn't know it, and we'll sing, "Huzza, huzza!" for all the ones we love, and we'll burst open.