Work Text
This is what you remember. You are ten years old and the anxiety is still just shyness and before you got on the boat, your mother introduced you and your sister, who is six, to everyone.They are friendly, as middle-aged art school graduates are wont to be, but beyond answering endless questions of how old you are and what grade you are in and what your favorite subject is, you do not say much.“She’s just shy,” your mother says as your sister gets lifted into the arms of a man you do not know.(you are not just shy)(trust comes slow and hard for you, and when you are older, you will hate yourself for it) This is what you remember. The first time they see you, truly see you, the captain hands your mother a life vest and you cross your arms and set your jaw and refuse.They watch as you fight it, protesting.You are ten years old. You know how to swim. Besides, it’s not like you’re going to jump into the ocean.You give in only when your mother all but yells.(she forces you again the next time)(the feeling of foam and polyester gripping your chest and constricting your breathing does not leave you completely after that) This is what you remember. Your mother tries to hold you in her arms, but you fidget until she lets you go.Your sister is already giggling in the lap of a stranger.You lean over the edge of the boat, hair whipping in the wind and you laugh as the ocean spray hits your face.And yet there is a tightness in your throat.(it is the first time you have felt trapped while freedom courses through your veins)(it is not the last) This is what you remember. The first time you see the island, all jagged cliffs and rocky beaches and lush woodland, your breath catches.You are from droughtland. You have never seen so much green.The others laugh at your urgency when you are the first one off the boat, life vest and shoes abandoned.(you leave more than your shoes behind)(you do not realize bare feet are a sign of comfort until you are older, but by then you tend to leave your shoes on) This is what you remember. After that first night, when you spent hours trailing your mother while everyone adored your sister and cooed over you, you spend as much time alone as you can.Even at ten, isolation suits you.And yet, it is not until late on the third day that you dare enter the woods.(it is not that you are afraid, you simply do not wish to risk your mother’s wrath)(when you are older, this is why you are diagnosed) Here is what you remember. You are ten years old and the anxiety is still just shyness and you feel better alone than you ever do around most people, and you are filthy and barefoot, hair a mess and dirt smeared on your legs and arms and face.Your mother is painting and your father is discussing literature and your sister is best friends with strangers who have two feet and twelve years on her.You are alone and you stand in the center of a graveyard, staring into the woods.The grass under your feet is damp and lush, and the trees you are staring at are dark green, deep and rich, heightened by the variegated storm cloud sky and the silver tendrils of mist that weave through the amber and earth-colored trunks.You check over your shoulder again, squinting against the light fall of rain that has begun.You take a step forward, wet grass soft underfoot.You run. Here is what you remember. You are ten years old and the anxiety is still just shyness and you feel better on this island than you ever have before and you are running.Green blurs into brown blurs into silver and you hear light footsteps and wind and the sound of the sea. Your feet hit dirt, hit roots, hit grass, hit moss, hit rocks, hard and damp, soft and spongey, sharp and coarse. The light filters in between the trees, sending shadows dancing across your face. You can hear your breathing as you vault over a fallen tree and scramble down a steep hill, path cut into a sheer cliff, and then your feet hit smooth rocks and you stumble through the ocean, cold water splashing against your thighs, before you trip across a sand bar, then onto a dock, footsteps thumping past the others heading to lunch, and you sprint through the grassy path, up a hill, and you’re back where you started.Laughter rings in your ears and your breathing is heavy.The grass under your feet is soft and you can feel your heartbeat in your ears, can feel the freedom coursing through your veins.You smile, check over your shoulder.You take a step forward and do not notice the bloody soles of your feet. Here is what you remember. The warm green of the grass becomes dappled in light and shadow, some patches darkened, others highlighted. The dirt is cool and rich, tree roots rough and craggy. The leaves and needles underfoot and overhead are bright and dark and sharp and soft and the precise shade of green a forest should be. To your right, you can see the dark blue grey of the ocean, white foam rushing over time-worn grey stones, and the place the stormy sky meets the misty sea becomes your favorite color.You press a hand to the trunk of a pine, hand sticking to sappy bark and the forest’s fingers snag in your hair.The scent of rich earth and rain and pine trees and the sea linger in your nose. This is what you remember. You do not cry, as your sister does, when you leave the island two days later.You are filthy and sea-washed and forest-touched and watch, smiling, as the land fades into the fog behind you. This is what you remember. You are ten years old and have lost part of yourself to an island you will never return to. This is what you remember. You are ten years old and want to be free. (you are older, now, and this desire has not left you) — 44° 17’ 01.9" N, 68° 16’ 11.6" WNov. 18, 2016