Wildwood Grit

That afternoon, I tripped over a rotting skull. A dishevled, disembodied canine skull with its yellowed fangs scattered haphazardly across the frosted trail.

I looked at the jumbled array of bones for a while. The trees swayed gently above, scattering glittering remnants of the early morning’s snowfall over the exposed grave. I stood there, wondering if I was testing my stomach by allowing my eyes (perhaps even encouraging them) to look onwards.

He told me to take a picture. He said how cool a photograph of it would look posted up on online. I was ashamed when I took out my phone and slid the two toned filter over it, as if every particle of my mind wanted to ask the decaying corpse for permission.

In class the following afternoon, he passed me a note. Remember the fox?

I was very young when my mother first tried to teach me about bravery. I still remember being unable to process the pedantic nature of procuring responsibility for fate. I still don’t think I buy it. I wondered then what the fox had done to deserve such a showcase of death. Passerbys stepping over the remains, without noticing his humble resting place.

On our first date, we sat down by the pond. Our feet swirling the stagnate water moss while our hands buried deep into a bag of pretzels, coyly brushing fingertips as we talked.

I remember looking at him sidelong, careful not to let his eyes catch mine. He’d run a hand through his hair and my feeble heart would swell.

By our first year of high school, we would find ourselves skipping Algebra class to go make out by the pond. We thought we were brave then. We thought we could be one of those cool kids you see in the movies, you know? Skipping class, stealing our parents liquor and smokes, we thought we were on our way to invincibility. I thought we were on our way to be Bonnie and Clyde.

Between each breath, he’d break away from my lips just long enough to point in any direction. That’s an Oak. His finger would circle around quickly, like a compass. And so is that one. I would wait patiently for his attention to turn back to me, careful not to seem too eager. Heaven forbid.

Sophmore year was when we stopped going to Literature class, but this time he wouldn’t be there as I settled onto the bank of the pond. I didn’t think I was brave anymore as I tried my best to bury my feet into the silt.

I remember waiting in the threshold of his room at the hospital. I looked at his jumbled array of bones for a while. The nurses hurriedly whirring behind me, clacking their shoes against the floor of this sterile, white coffin. I stood there, wondering if I was testing my stomach by allowing my eyes, no, encouraging them to look onwards.

I remember the swell of ferocity as I left the cobblestone prison. On the ride home, I replayed the look of his fragile, bird-like frame. The sound of his mother’s shaken voice as she explained the motor vehicle that hit him at 35 miles per hour. I remember I hadn’t said anything, I could only think of the faint metronomic thrum of his heart.

I didn’t cross the room to touch him. A better me would have tripped over my rotting bravery that afternoon. A better me would have rested a palm against his chest, I should have looked him in the eyes. That’s an Oak.

A better me is still trying. I rest my palm against my own heavy chest this time, placing another fern over his granite stone resting place. And so is this one.