Carbon

By Madalyn Meyers

I stand cemented at the edge of the wood, staring down at the uncurling fiddlehead. For the first time in months, the morning air does not sting my nostrils, threatening nips of frostbite with each inhale. I force myself to expand my lungs, filling them with crisp breath like a forgotten balloon stretching to expose a web of vulnerable flesh between cracked callus. I had been wandering the boundary of my yard, counting the laps to ensure that solitary did not equate to stationary. It was on my fifth and final lap that the infantile fern caught my eye, unspooling its slender appendage, exposing its belly to the sun as it stretched toward the sky. I bend down, studying the coiled plant stem. It is perhaps the most remarkable thing I’ve seen in months, the eager plant tissue sprouts in anticipation of sunlight, yearning for warmth when all its short life has known is the darkness beneath the frozen topsoil. 

I fight the impulse to rip it out at its roots. 

Haven’t you heard? I think as I lord over the frond. Phil saw his shadow - six more weeks of winter. You emerged too early, and I won’t follow you out.

Today is an anomaly, a moment where the tornado has hurled my property into its eye. But make no mistake, for the storm has not left me alone. It takes pleasure in volleying me between the sides of its funnel, simulating stillness as my house hurtles towards the unyielding ground. If I dare peek out the window, I may splinter into a million jagged shards. I am not Dorothy. This is not Oz. I keep my windows boarded and survive off canned meats until the world opens its arms once more. 

I examine the soft bristles along the spine of the fiddlehead, imagining what it would taste like if I sauté it until tender. Perhaps I could hang it on a string outside my front door, a decapitation to warn others from planting pipe dreams where they are not welcome. 

You see, I have seen this dance before. Spring flirts with Hope, lightly grabs it by the collar and pulls it into open air. It twirls Hope around, just enough to disorient it. Then Spring plays hard to get, leaving Hope to freeze alive when winter secures its grip once again. I have seen the damage to friends who succumbed to temptation, allowing their desire out to play. I’ve watched loved ones crawl back under their rock and lick the wounds that may never heal over. As for me, my Hope is still alive, an old acquaintance I had to bury beneath flesh long ago. It waits, packed between my lungs inside dirt and clay where it stays hidden and safe. 

The wings of a chickadee flash across the top of my sight before its owner perches defiant on a nearby branch. It sings “hey, sweetie,” and replies come bouncing back in all directions before colliding above my head. I want to yell at them to fly away. Go back to the tropics! It’s not time yet! The clouds will come back fiercer than they were before. The dew that watered my lawn this morning will frost the same turf tomorrow, shattering blades of grass as I walk along my path. I picture it attacking the songbird’s feathers, forming ice crystals along each barb as they sleep. They will awaken to wings that hang heavy and stiff, pulling their bodies to the forest floor as they try and take flight. 

I can think of it no longer. I have had enough. I retreat to my house, wrapping the thick layers of my cardigan around my torso to apply pressure under my ribs. Nothing shall enter and nothing shall escape. Each step feels weighted as I emerge onto my deck. A rocking chair sits diagonal by the door, calling me over as I collapse into its embrace. It is sticky under my layers of clothing, salty droplets of sweat caught beneath tight knit wool. I allow my sweater to fall over my shoulders, exposing a slight bit of skin as it glows white next to the honey walnut of the rocking chair. I know better than to stay here for long. The sunshine is addicting, and too much exposure will make the withdrawal a torment. 

Still, I close my eyes, rocking slowly as my heartbeat drives the rhythm of the chair. I count backwards from 100, limiting my time to only what is necessary. I feel my skin absorb the rays, storing vitamin D for the dark days to come, serotonin playing hopscotch with my neurons. I marvel at how exhausting it is to hold oneself together. When I reach 22, I drift into space. My mind runs free without the confines of my consciousness, remembering all the times we’ve been here before. They said two months at home, then six months, then twelve. Like déjà vu, it was best not to get attached. The fate of the vulnerable was laid on our shoulders. Funerals were luxuries we could no longer afford. The memories I try not to relive flash before my eyes like a Kodak carousel, each projection laying atop the last.

Then, it happens all at once. A warm breeze blows against my cheek and I watch as the stack of photographs drift weightlessly away like they are riding atop an invisible current. I can hardly remember how I ended up here, exposed atop a chipped rocking chair, corners of my lips turned up in content. I crack my eyelids to see a squirrel dash across my lawn, mouth full of buried treasure. It catches the bark of the old oak tree, spiraling up its trunk before disappearing among the tree top. I stare at the knot of branches, the ones which had stood naked the last time I checked now dawned a sprinkling of miniature leaves. They fanned out in search of the sun, clinging to the wood of the tree - the one old enough to witness the long winters that now live as tales. The leaves rustle in response to the breeze, whispering wise assurances into my ear until I feel a fracture at the base of my heart. If I hadn’t just awoken, I would have run inside, wrapped my arms around my body, held my limbs close to my chest. Instead I listen to the old oak tree, caught somewhere between dreams and reality, as it tells me that the coldest days have passed.

I feel shockwaves through my body, originating from the space between my lungs. Something at my core is knocking for escape, like an egg-bound chick sawing its way to freedom. The ball of earth I once molded now cracks inside my chest, the black soot confine breaks further apart with each heartbeat. Spider-web fissures contaminate its surface, causing the whole thing to crumble into ashes with one final blow. I want to whimper in pain as I feel the loss of its presence, a void within my body like an organ ripped out. I lay vulnerable, limp, as fear leaves salty trails down my cheeks. The oak tree whispers once again, coaxing me to check the cavity beneath my ribs, to see what the rubble has left behind. My boneless body cannot fight it. I succumb to temptation, shedding light into the void and being met with a spectral-colored display. Something inside of me dares to dance, that which has grown brighter with each application of pressure. The acquaintance buried long ago, unseen but not forgotten, sees freedom once more.

Hello, old friend.