I let my head fall to the side. I feel tender about the grass, and myself. In the absence of another, I am the other, and I’m familiar.
The mountain’s clouded and, for the first time, I recognise it. I recognise this place. I greet it bravely though it intimidates me. I think of what it would be like to live with the land, as the people who were here before did, rather than on it, as my house is. Live with it at night, and recognise it always, as I do now.
My knees ache with the cold, and I continue my walk home.
I walk toward the mountain. I dance and I meow and I inhabit the night, as I did when I was a child, as I do anything which allows me space.
Other stories from another time and place echo, of bandaid boys, and I wonder. Bandaids cause things to become stagnant and fester, if not changed. And I suppose that’s the moral, allow them to protect you from the harsh elements while you are raw (like from the- otherwise soothing- sting of running water), but dont keep them around as though they were part of your skin.
The witching hour strikes, and I have eaten the pumpkin. I trip; it begins to rain. The mountain is no longer visiable, I am part of the cloud.
I am of this earth, but not for this earth, I am not sure exactly what for.
Hood up, head down.