The first week of shelter in place, my mind felt swollen with time. As if
I was fourteen again, stuck on this land so far from town without car, or the
ability to walk to a 7-11, or even the escape of TV. It was a time that
threatened to swallow me up in its deafening silence. As if the world were
wrapped in cotton. My self was my only companion. The only movement was the swallows looping in
air, the wind rustling the leaves of bay trees. My mind felt jarred. As in
canned and shelved, like a scientific specimen pinned by limbs into a diorama
whose top had been sealed. My only dream was to escape to a city where
noise covered everything, where sidewalks were freckled with gum and every
corner held the open door of a bodega. Their polished fruit stacked
into pyramids of desire.
To be back here, now, stuck, sheltering in the place that once swallowed my teenage self in a blur of self-doubt made it all come back: my bones felt like cardboard, my blood like lead. I felt alone even though I was surrounded by my partner and my two teenage boys. My memories seeped up like a forgotten underground spring. Stories drifted back, dusty and full of holes. You should have never done this; you should have never done that. But this time when I held them up to the light I could see through them to the truth. I smiled back at that young girl, so unsure of herself, because I know and love her now.
To be back here, now, stuck, sheltering in the place that once swallowed my teenage self in a blur of self-doubt made it all come back: my bones felt like cardboard, my blood like lead. I felt alone even though I was surrounded by my partner and my two teenage boys. My memories seeped up like a forgotten underground spring. Stories drifted back, dusty and full of holes. You should have never done this; you should have never done that. But this time when I held them up to the light I could see through them to the truth. I smiled back at that young girl, so unsure of herself, because I know and love her now.
On the other side of this, when time quickens, and we fall
tumbling back into the churn of our lives, I don’t want to forget the
loneliness I once had. The unsteady gait
of not knowing how to be a girl in a world that was stacked against me. And each day I will take time to hear her
whisper back to me through the wind in the bay leaves.
Iris Jamahl Dunkle's Charmian Kittredge London: Trailblazer, Author, Adventurer
is forthcoming from the University of Oklahoma Press. Her poetry
collection West : Fire : Archive is forthcoming from Mountain/
West Poetry Series. Previous books include Interrupted
Geographies, Gold Passage, and There's a Ghost in this
Machine of Air.
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