We/Knots

The sensation of being about to die is exactly the same as the sensation of not. The thin skin of my feet alternated between the hot tar of the ground and the damp summer air. At a gallop, I ran, I fled. From a window, a pair of blue eyes, half-covered by dry white strands of hair, watched. On sensing the presence of the eyes, I stopped. I let whirls of air braid themselves between my fingers, warping the backyard. I accepted the pain in my skin. I accepted that I could not flee the backyard, nor the eyes, nor the skin.

The house had been renovated before my first memories. The black ground now covered the place where a pool had been. At some point it had become too dangerous for a child who could already walk and for an old lady who could no longer keep her balance. At some point, the child and the old woman became the cause. Afterward, they became us.

That backyard was potency to us. She, from the height of the window. I, from the height of my little feet. In the damp air, we took communion.

Two stately figures, dressed in black, emerged out of the hot air. Their faces were covered in black lace. From the window, the old woman smiled in welcome. From the ground, the child smiled in play. From inside the lace, the figures smiled in contentment.

Well met again. My sister and I wish to settle a dispute. Your eyes are big enough now. The two spoke in a chorus that was almost pained, as though speaking this way were required of them. Not one of the four of us could escape what had been given us. Christ was bound to the cross. The old woman, to saudade. The child, to the ground. The figures, to the chorus.

The one on the left crouches and touches the hard ground, which bubbles up in sweat. A wound opens and, timidly, reveals what is most sacred in the earth, which is soil. With the tenderness of a mother laying a baby in a cradle, she sets a seed into the crack. The seed breaks with a hollow sound and, from within it, a white stalk snakes out. Green gradient. Then, at its top — tall now, and rigidly held — a bud bursts open. From the flower the petals fall, and from the core a heavy fruit twists the stalk. Behold, child, this is my gift.

The one on the right crouches next and touches the ground, which breathes now the relief of a breeze. The sweat dries. The stalk gives way and the fruit falls. Black gradient. The worms savor the banquet in a frenzy. The stalk withers. Lunch finished, the worms wither too. All that is left is a seed, out of the soil-cradle, arid of ground. Quiet and dead. Behold, child, this is my gift.

The old woman waits. The figures wait. Well then, who wins? The game had turned grave. Solar flare, aggressive. I could not choose. Many years ago, in a backyard much like it, the old woman was also unable to choose. Whoever put the sun there knew the end of all things, and did not care. I, for not knowing, cared. And for caring, I could not choose.

The figures accept the non-answer as a provisional settlement. They promise to return one day.

The old woman breathes deep, her tired body barely moving. What for?

The sensation of being about to die is exactly the same as the sensation of not.

I go back to playing, at the gallop of one who flees.