This morning, at 8 AM, the sky looked bruised, like it could have a good cry. Now, at almost 10 AM, it’s cheerful again, so capricious. A zephyr has coaxed the clouds into revealing a smiling sun. If I stand still for a moment, that same breeze ripples the branches and tosses the leaves coating the forest floor. To me, it says, “Be still.” I watch the sky move, and it reminds me of my father’s eyes. Something rippled beneath as if a current flowed too closely to the surface of his grey-blue gaze to be hidden for long. He had eyes like the ocean. I didn’t notice until it was too late. What could I have done anyway?
Today, I turn my own gaze to the world around me, determined to see what I never have before. Little birds sing a lullaby. They play hopscotch among the vines and thorns. I bow my head to duck beneath the same branches, but the stickers tug on my curly hair anyway. Finally, I just crouch down; soothed by the wind and the way it makes me feel alive. Nearby, a rock peeks from below the crunchy, fallen leaves. Its cold surface is carpeted by fuzzy moss. Ahead of me, a long, thick branch beckons me with its rosy thorns. They are colorful amongst a forest of brown.
Before I know it, I have gone farther than I ever have in the past 2 months. I am surrounded by the haloed sun and the whispering winds and the knowledge that there is always something I’ve missed here. I am searching even as I hope I don’t find it: the imprint of his shoulders in the dirt, a patch of flannel torn by reaching limbs.
I am searching for him.
He’s not here, though. And in looking only for him, I have missed the beauty amongst the snarls. I have missed the strange little puff of grass growing inside the elbow of a tree root. I reach for it now, fingering velvety strands. Then, curiously, I pull a tuft from the earth and smell it to find that it’s actually wild onion! A tiny bulb clings to the end of one of the strands. I have missed the teeny, milky buds popping bravely through the grass in my backyard. They wave in the breeze.
No, he is not here. I glance back at a large tree trunk, fallen among bristles, and I think of climbing on top of it, resting my head in my hands, and having a good cry. “Another day,” I decide. For now, I sit in my basement, typing this, listening to the whine of a draft moving through my chimney. For now, this will be enough.
There's a sense here that you're gaining some perspective, through your excursions into this place, seeing through and beyond what you thought you might by being here. I'm appreciating being part of the journey.
ReplyDeleteAimee,
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this piece for a few different reasons. The language seems very vibrant and the voice clear and unique. The first two lines really drew me in and I was ready to find out what this changeable atmosphere was going to bring about. The second thing that really jumped out at me was the growing perspective that Mel mentioned. Beginning to see things you were missing before because you were to "busy" looking for your father is a big step. My father died 8 years ago next month--I think it took me a long time to see things like this. It definitely isn't an easy road, but a vital one to take.
"[T]here is always something I’ve missed here..." Aint it like that? Nice how you have integrated your various thoughts and attention to detail.
ReplyDelete"Finally, I just crouch down; soothed by the wind and the way it makes me feel alive."
ReplyDeleteAimee,
I feel that we are on this journey with you. May the world continue to offer its beauty to you, and may you find solace in these places.
Aimee, your language here is beautiful and moving. From the very first sentence, where the sky needs to cry, you weave a sense of your own emotions and this natural location you are surrounded by for your readers. I like the "double duty" of the land you describe-- how it plays off of your own psyche, your memories of your father and the emotions you have towards them. So often we see nature in a way that reflects our inner workings, and you've deftly described it here. Nice job!
ReplyDelete