her slow consumption a layer of life over the house and all its stories
she swells like a wave beneath its foundation
a patient and measured breaking of the bones
a skeleton that held it upright for over a century
vines tug at walls, window frames, anxious to turn the old wood into soil
were I to walk up those steps akilter
push and pop open the door, uneven on its frame
and step into that cavernous belly
would she be there, too?
a scurry of racoons on that couch where I once sprawled drunkenly
confessed to feelings I didn’t have because I needed someone to love me
a swallows nest above a broken window in the kitchen
peeking heads poking over the sides,
pink as the bismuth I once slurped from a spoon while standing at the counter
and up a brittle broken spine of stairs
banister hanging from a cracked wall like a broken arm
into a bedroom, hot and buzzing with bees
beams of sunlight through holes in the roof catching the dust of so many flowers
and into the bathroom
a clawfoot tub capsizing through a rotting floor
mother squirrel clicking at me from split rafters overhead as I peer into the bed of twigs and leaves cradling her babies
I didn’t know the plants could hear me. Dogs, cats, birds, squirrels, horses, our connections are old hat. It was mostly a joke when I asked that douglas fir seed to grow. How was I to know she’d taken me seriously?
On the day I was about to dump the dirt she yelled up at me with the smallest fleck of green. “Hello! I made it! I’m here!”
The last time I germinated anything it was myself. I never gave that seed a chance to grow. This one, though, we’ve got plans. She’s going to be a tree one day. A real tree. For animals to nest in. With branches for bugs to crawl on and spiders to weave webs. Shade for foxes, shelter from rain. Sweet pine scent to catch the wind that hisses through her needles.
She is the future, this glowing green sprout no bigger than a pin.
She is hope.
Something happened to us today. Us, the collection of little parts that make the big body. Us, human, and us, her knee. A pop, a wrenching as we climbed off the edge of the bed, away from the windowsill garden.
We’ve worked so hard to be cohesive, find balance and resist the slow siren song of gravity. We’ve been sluggish lately, healing from an impact we weren’t designed to take. So many demands we are still trying to meet. Our nutrient sources are weak. Diluted. We must move to feel better, but because of this our energy supply depletes quickly. And now our knee!
Inside the joint still echoes the slamming of bones back into place. Our many tiny minds were elsewhere, caught up in cervical suspension cables and sleepy multifidi when we should have been focused on lower limb stability. We need to move slower.
We hate moving slower!
Half of the things I’ve bought and done in the last three years aren’t paid for. Yet all of the world is mine and she didn’t cost even a penny. Still, my access to her is restricted. I wouldn’t have needed to put all that shit on the credit card if there weren’t so many rules about how I can move on this earth.
I hate what I’m writing. I resent that I have to work so many hours next week just so I can move through this world and still have access to my own bed. My own shower.
If only I’d married a rancher. Or run away to Alaska before I fell in love with Junior.
Rain paints a sonic landscape outside my apartment. Crows call out to each other to remind me why I’m still here. Space heater. Grow lamp. Little black dog on a pillow. A bee examines my freshly transplanted tomato starts.
Hope gets the last word again.
All pictures and words copyright Anna Horvitz (me) and cannot be used without my consent.
