The Canyon

My grandmother says the Canyon used to be less of a chasm and more of a crack in the sidewalk, but that’s hard to believe. Canyons don’t form in a generation. Mom never contradicts her though, just sits there with her eyes on the hem of her shirt, looking sad. I’m not supposed to go near the Canyon, but everyone does it. I’ve even caught Grandma there a few times, but neither of us can accuse the other one without incriminating ourselves, so we don’t. We just walk to the edge and feel the strange sucking sensation, like the wind at the bottom is pulling all of the energy out of your body. I can’t imagine a crack in the sidewalk doing that.

            According to Grandma’s mushed-up brain, when she was a little girl, our town was a city, with a government and everything. She tells me about how there was a Mayor who was in charge, and a Cabinet who helped him keep things organized and running smoothly. There were parks, and a town swimming pool, and libraries, and people to look after all of those things. No curfew, either, and school five days a week. There must have been a lot more people back then. Grandma never says. I don’t think she liked the Mayor much because talking about him pinches her eyebrows together.

            Elizabeth says her great uncle Dan was part of the Cabinet, and he got sucked into the Canyon entirely, that whatever the Canyon sucked out of him was all he was made of, so it took his whole being away. The same thing happened to the Mayor. Most of the Cabinet survived, but none of them were able to speak after their encounters. Dan was important, I think. He had a lot of responsibilities. Elizabeth’s mom says not to worry about that because it won’t happen anymore, yet that doesn’t stop me from lying awake some nights and wondering if Dan maybe just stood too close to the edge and fell. I don’t stand too close to the edge, just enough to feel the rush while Elizabeth stands guard. She never ever stands by the Canyon, because she’s frightened of the force inside that gap. She thinks it’s full of evil. I disagree; I can sense something wonderful about it, if only I could get a hold of the wind, instead of the wind getting hold of me.

            I’m going to the Canyon tonight to think about growing up. It is a little ritual I perform. Without a trip to the Canyon, tomorrow won’t feel like a birthday. The thing is, tomorrow is also the 50^th anniversary of the Canyon’s appearance in the sidewalk, so it might be crowded. That’s a big anniversary. It’s a big birthday too: ten. That’s why I didn’t invite Elizabeth this year. Grandma says that in her day, the Canyon was guarded by policemen on anniversaries to keep people from visiting. They were supposed to protect the people, she says, but most of the time they used their jobs to protect themselves. The Canyon took most of them, too. The Canyon only takes certain kinds of people. What those kinds of people are is a mystery to me though, because no one will tell me. Apparently I’m too young. Maybe I’ll be old enough to know tomorrow. Sharing a birthday with it sometimes tricks me into thinking I have some sort of privilege, like I get to know things about it that other people don’t, just because of when I was born.

            When I go to the Canyon, a few hours after Mom has shut off the lights, and Grandma is snoring on her cot, I find I’m entirely alone. It’s just me, and this giant hole that pulls on your insides. It’s a little scary, and a little exhilarating. I’m fascinated by it. It makes me feel strong, energized. On the rim of the Canyon, I’m in control; I can do anything I want.

            Stepping closer to the edge than I’ve ever been before, I stare down into it, trying to see the river that carved it. There is no river.

            “What are you?” I whisper. It’s tugging a little more than it used to. I jump back because I swear the Canyon laughed at me. Just a chuckle, but it was there. “You can’t hear me, you’re a canyon.”

            There’s another chuckle. “Of course I can hear you.” It sounds smooth with a tangy after-taste, like a cough drop.

            I sit down. My legs feel like they’re being erased, hot and rubbery and distant. I’m not afraid. At least that is what I’m saying, even if that is not quite what I’m feeling. I’m feeling like there’s nothing I can do unless the Canyon thinks it’s okay for me to do it. I’m feeling like if the Canyon tells me anything, I have to do it. I don’t like it. I’m starting to understand that face Mom makes when Grandma tells stories about the old days, that defeat and resignation. I’m feeling—

            “Powerless.”

            And it’s right. I want to move away from the edge, to run home and hug my mom and never go near that Canyon again, but I can’t. It won’t let me. So I sit there, my knees shaking on the dirt in front of me, my fingers gripping at tree roots as the ground slowly runs away from my body. My nose is full of mud and there are goose bumps on my arms. I’m being sucked into the Canyon, and there is nothing I can do about it. I guess power destroys you in the end, if you’re not careful with it.