autumn-spirit

As the rocket shot up into the great expanse of milky winter skies above, straight towards the sun's pale saffron glow, the roar of the engine flooded my eardrums and the tremors started vibrating throughout my entire frame, rattling my bones, and my heart tightened in my chest but not with nerves, no; with regret because I was leaving you behind, girl. You told me to go, when you wrapped your arms around my shoulders, the last time we saw each other, telling me not to feel guilty about this snap-decision, but you should have known that asking that of me was useless. Yes, you should've known, Princess, that I'd be looking down, as the aircraft propelled me upward, higher and higher off this cursed ground, as I gripped the compass on a chain that you gifted me, a long time ago, willing my hands to stop shaking, to stop staining the clear shiny surface with my sweat and shameful tears, as I wished to God that I had stayed.. And often it felt like one of us was always leaving the other

There's a curse on your family-line, friend. That's what everybody says, everybody back where we were dug up from, from the raw, vicious woods and the dark rain-softened earth. You found out too late to fix anything, it's true; you found out too late to fix what was broken long before you great great-gandfather's time, long before he spilled innocent blood on a 17th century plantation lawn, long before you were even born and learned to crawl on the same grass, the same soil, leaning over more than just splintered sun-bleached bone, rope and dogwood blossoms, remnants of a past too shameful to talk about in polite conversation on the porch, with a glass of iced tea in hand, under the navy-raspberry shade of a Confederate flag. There's a curse on your family name, boy; you tried to deny it, yes, disguise it, when you moved up North, understandably so, you tried to pretend like you had it all figured out, like you had everything under control, but it followed you wherever you dared to

I used to think I wanted to be you, Garett, honest to God. I used to think I wanted to be you, especially on the days when I'd watch you charm your way into everybody's good graces and I used to wish, all the time, that I was just as naturally confident and smooth with words as you were, with your tone and smile; eyes always focused on the target, never straying, never lowering with shame or fear or anything weak or remotely negative. Yeah, I really wanted to be you, Garett, you with your J Crew sleeves and perfect Old Money accent, you with your treasure trove of endless knowledge; odd facts about Welsh history rattling around in that strange brain of yours, friend, Latin vocabulary and calculus at the ready, Southern pleasantries, funny yet obscure phrases that made most people feel intimidated but also honored to be in your larger-than-this-modern-age presence. Yes, I wanted to be you sometimes, I'm pretty sure because how could I not, when everybody else did? How could I not want

Too late I realize I left my heart buried under the rubble of a failed utopia, friend. It is there in the Amazonian rainforest, where a city with both upper and lower levels once stood tall, proud and imposing, like the work of an ancient civilization, like a pyramid but not really, now nothing but charcoal-tinted ruins with vibrant green foliage growing all around it; vines, like braids twisting in and out of chipped brick squares, spotted with tiny purple and white flowers here and there. Now it is nothing but the scorched remains of human hope disintegrating in the balmy air, melting into the earth itself, where it belongs, under the constant end-of-growing-season silver rain. Yes, I'm sure now that, when I emerged from that thick lush maze of emerald forest, without my older brother in tow, after we escaped the hospital where he was being kept against his will, even after I felt his soul slip away, as he collapsed in my arms, his body succumbing to some kind of toxin that

Shape-shifter, I know you are near right now, as I put the kettle on the stovetop in my tiny kitchen and peer out the picture-window into the darkened forest surrounding my modest home at the base of the mountain. And truth be told, I resist the urge to pull the curtains closed because I don't want you to think that I am afraid, cowering behind these four faded sepia walls of mine, as I am unable to pinpoint your exact location, at the moment. And, fearing the worst, fearing that you are, in fact, a lot closer than I thought before, and so, a lot more of a threat than I am willing to mull over and even accept as fact, as an unavoidable nightmare to plague me later on in my sleep, I hold my breath until the kettle goes off in a shrill warning of impending dread that I wish would just stay dead and buried under dried leaves; hollow, empty, and weightless. As I settle down under thick layers of blankets and hand-woven quilts, I wonder if you can somehow get inside my house, Nahele,

Friend, I remember how, at your family's Purim celebration, I tried to feed you your grandmother's famous apple-spice cake, but as I cut off a slice, the table knife in my hand slipped and grazed one of my fingers, opening the flesh just a tiny bit and revealing the bright and gooey russet blood inside. Then, all of a sudden, you were turning away from me, gagging and spitting on the carpet and throwing up what looked like sticky tar-coated raven feathers and dead butterflies out of your raw-bitten mouth, dribbling over Voodoo doll-stitched lips. Oh friend, I could've sworn that that was the beginning of the end, metaphorically speaking of course, the end of the normal life that we took for granted, used to complain about but still secretly loved in our simple yet widely diverse neighborhood in Chicago. But later on, boy, you disputed this assumption of mine, shaking your head and arguing flatly, "No, girl. That wasn't when it all started: 'the beginning of the end', as you call

The flickering gold and bronze tavern lights welcome you home from the war, and I do my best to ignore how loudly my heart hammers in my chest, at the sight of your unmistakable shape appearing in the doorway. I know it's you, even before you raise your head and grace us all; all of the patrons of this grime-and-copper pub, with your sun-star stare, even at a distance, where I stand behind a table laden with dirty mugs of wine and port, with a dishrag in hand, my cheeks flushed, my limbs frozen in shock. And still, even as your name is being called by several people around, even as others crowd around you, welcoming you back with open arms, my flight-or-fight instinct kicks in and I decide to bolt out of that pub before you can notice me standing there, all still and speechless, my lee-green eyes wide and filling quickly with unshed tears. Sneaking out the back-door through the kitchen, I breathe in the dewy spring night air and hope that it will clear my head, as I press my back

As our homeland passes by in flashes of green and yellow plains; cotton-blue, almost opulent skies, I choke on a sob, as the noise of the train thundering down the winding tracks echoes in my ears, creating even more of a barrier, it seems, between this moment here and life on the other side of a barbed-wire fence, the one I just left behind, the place where our parents died, the place where you still stood, like a stubborn and forlorn seagull atop a pier, refusing to budge but not entirely incapable of doing so. I battle a horde of emotions in my chest, the dominant ones being anger and frustration; shock and betrayal, loss and heartbreak, of course, as I recall how, only moments ago, I reached out my hand to help you climb over that fence, brother of mine, however, you stepped away from me and shook your head. Catching me off guard, you declared in a steady tone, almost devoid of emotion, "Sorry, but I can't follow you this time." And for a split second, boy, I couldn't

You were licking raindrops off your lips, in the partial lilac darkness of my bedroom, and I had my treacherous heart stuck inside my throat, as we stood there, staring at one another in an awkward moment that neither of us could quite comprehend or entirely shake off. Oh, there were silent accusations in the air between us, for sure; there were goosebumps on your arms and along your neck, boy, shame in your eyes, and a mixture of dread and excitement twisting my stomach into knots, as a heaviness hung above, like an ominous cloud-cover or a musty blanket making me feel suddenly claustrophobic in my familiar paisley haven, like a rose trapped inside an alchemist's glass jar or like a perfect storm in a teacup, just stewing in its own fury, brewing in wait for that perfect moment to burst out into a million tiny red-orange sparks of destruction, ready to explode like a ticking time-bomb leaving nothing behind but lovely ruin in its wake. Oh, I think we were wondering the same exact