Fencing in the forest

The end of the world is in a butterfly. One evening you’re scoping out the neighborhood and you happen to take a step back to admire Mrs. O’s garden, when you notice a small little white butterfly pop up from the corner of your eye. The scene has fallen perfectly into place. And then you think back on when the last time you saw a butterfly was, and it dawns on you that this is the first time all summer. Mind you, it’s almost September. So you rack your brain trying to summon a memory of a butterfly from the past four months. Not a single one. It can’t be. Surely you must be wrong. Nothing. Now your gut churns at the thought of what this could mean. You know insects are the central nervous system of this planet. The last piece that completes the puzzle. Without them there is no you. And you know this isn’t about you. But without you, there is no one else left in this universe to admire the wonder of such beings as butterflies. And don’t butterflies exist to be admired. It doesn’t take m

The locals named me Wounda. Meaning “close to death” in their dialect. As if we aren’t all close to death all of the time. As if we shouldn’t all be called Wounda. I used to be free. Something that comes with being nameless. Something you won’t understand. Think about it. You are named, branded, tagged and labeled the moment you are conceived. Your forenamed self enters a forenamed world. You are fed unpronounceable ingredients and told that’s what you eat. You are washed with chemicals and told that's how you clean yourself. You are clothed in certain colors and told that’s just what you wear. You even have a name for all the naming. Social constructs. Without names, you are nobodies. And that’s where we part ways. Because I was somebody until you named me. Something I learned from you during our time together was the concept of projection. I was always being depicted as the victim who had to be saved, while all along it was your displacement of feelings of shame and guilt at play

Kae was a living balancing act. The left foot just barely fitting on the thirdhand skateboard. That’s what life is. You ride with one foot on and the other ready to slam down on concrete and shave your sole off . There had rarely ever been anything other than wheels under Kae’s feet. Skates, bikes, scooters, skateboards. You name it, Kae rode it. The city air feels more fresh going at 10 mph. The roads wider. The people friendlier . Even so, the neighbors K would stop for while on the move were unaware of the very elite group they formed. Most of them got at most a passing wave. The owner of the downstairs bar, Jo, got the full works. The making of the eye contact. The slamming of the breaks. The getting off of the vehicle. The taking off of the helmet. Even the kissing of the cheeks. Jo adored Kae. Hey love, how are you darling, where you off to sweetheart were all part of the affectionate jargon they pampered each other with. Perhaps it was the nature of Jo having watched Kae grow up

The vet tells me it's dementia. She doesn't know where she is, so she screams. Don't I get it, cat. Some days I wake up and the Sun hits just right and my limbs are stretched out and I swear the cat is me. And then the cat screams. So I go on walks. I don't walk far but I walk deeply. I haven't measured, but if I had to guess I'd say our meeting place is 3,128 steps from my house. Where I found T all those months ago. Back when it was cold. Now it borders Grassy Pond and sits on a bed of moss. Now I go barefoot because feeling the green sponge give under my feet is my form of therapy. Other than T that is. Talk about a relationship that's not easy to put into words. Talk about untrodden territory. There's nothing I can't say or do in T’s presence. T always stands in the same spot. I'm always the last one to show up and the first one to leave. I have a screaming cat to attend to after all. Conversation is scarce, but that's the nature of our r