love, read, write

You are sitting in a patch of grass extending into the sea of asphalt. The sound of childhood and after-school tag rings far away in the background. Your fingers are planted into the dirt, tufts of green between your fingers: soft, like the fur of an animal. The entire lawn sways together, a single instrument wavering indecisively with the sweet wind that combs through your hair. Gleeful screeches echo in the distance, as if recalling a past that you remember as faintly as the little voices sound to you now.

A curious ant crawls up your index finger:

Hi, ____ – it's me. I didn't see you in class yesterday. Or last week. 

Did something happen? Can you call me? You know you can tell me anyth–

You watch it, patiently, eerily detached from the creature you might otherwise jump away from. There is something about that particular ant, you think to yourself. It looks around at the landmark of your wrist. 

By the time it reaches your elbow, it has understood its new terrain, and beckons for its friends to join. You feel the newcomers catching onto the ridges of your fingerprints, holding back a fear that the first did not have:

– and that's entirely, 100% your fault. I can tell you think you're a perfect person who does no wrong, but trust me: nobody– 

The pioneer waits patiently at the junction between arm and shoulder, assessing that the next terrain will need more assistance. You and the pioneer watch as they fumble around the turn of the elbow, and you close your eyes, feeling their little feet map onto the springy land of your body.

– so, so sorry we couldn't be of more help, we just don't have control over that part of the system–

There is a new group investigating your fingernails. In fact there are a lot of them now. You've lost sense of their individuality– you don't know where the first is, nor the newcomers, they feel sort of connected– it feels, almost, as if you are sinking down into them, and not the other way around…

– ow! Ow! Stop it, I don't want to be It anymore! Can someone else be It? Please? I wanna go home…

Your fingers, knotted into the grass, begin to dig deeper into the earth. You meet a colder but more alive flesh underneath, wet, pulsing, breathing you in, and then exhaling its tiny millions –

(as if your body is an entry point into a common accessible memory)

– and you do not need to open your eyes anymore. The whole family has welcomed itself onto your skin, as if a breathing fabric of the earth is now knitting itself onto you. With each trembling inhale you disintegrate further into the soil, a rapid decaying, finding your millions to dismember; each exhale fragments into hacking coughs, sputtering little snippets of memory you'll never access again:

Did you read my letter? You didn't respond– I wasn't sure you'd gotten it–

Is there anything else you want to tell me?

Sorry, could you tell me your name again?

(as if there are things buried underneath, waiting to be aloud)

—

In your last moments, it feels as if you can hear the ants speak, their tiny scratches building each syllable into a tinny voice:

"Ah, right. We're sorry about this–

wrong place, wrong time? Or

at least you were there when

we needed a page to write on,

and you had the perfect

accessories

to our archive– we don't 

want to be forgotten, you see.

So we couldn't help it–

your ears, your eyes, your (we have so much to tell you)

feet, they can hold so much

more than what you've let it— 

forgive us, please?"

(an exercise for a class)