15/30
And sometimes I still think about
The apple festival
The apple festival
I felt so uncomfortable. you
Asked me to go to the apple festival with
Your family. Me all soft clay and spindles
Unsure of my teeth and fingers and ankles turned inwards
I loved you so sharply
Holding hands felt like finger pricks
All Red on skin like
Honeycrisp.
It’s the same way I felt at 27
Still sinew tangled and shrugging at the shirt on my back
“What does your dream wedding look like?”
A void.
Weddings feel like
The apple festival
And later
Maternity photos
And later
Proposals
And later
Coordinated outfits at Christmas.
It took me too many clock turns
To untangle the riddle of
The apple festival.
It’s just
Some event in
The mountains.
Why?
There’s a hay ride. I’m not afraid of hay.
But I’m not afraid of weddings
Either
Or
Dinner parties
Either
Or
Picking out colors of wall paint
Either.
Why? Why, then, do all of those things send up my bristle back?
Shake of the spine and run towards the tree line of my mind, too dark
To see or think of embroidered dish towels.
Symptoms:
Shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, tremor in the hands.
Diagnosis:
Just cider and an orchard.
But lest not we put the garter before the tree.
And forget to remember my rotten roots
Go deep.
15 years later, to realize
I didn’t want a backdrop to my sadness.
Some Olan Mills watercolor to even the pallor
Of the forced smile on my face.
I didn’t want to be taken to a lovely place
To do lovely things
While also on my knees
Dirt splayed and wide-eyed
Begging someone to love me properly.
No family photos.
No vacations.
No romantic spotlight.
No dancing.
No dates no tablecloths no silent auctions no benefit dinners no candid photos or planned photos or holiday photos
Or
Birthday Photos
Or really any photos at all.
No apple festivals.
But sometimes I’m still 15, crying in the corn maze.
And sometimes I’m 30.