wildscape. literary journal

On Forgetting
by Kaylee Walton

Losing track of time. The ring from a cup of water left on a bedside table. Clothes stuffed in a drawer you never open. Rotten fruit. Filling your hands and emptying them. Over and over. Medicine bottles that should have been refilled. A dirty mirror. The dripping faucet. Two toothbrushes sharing a single mason jar. Read receipts. Looping the same song. A half empty bottle of perfume. November. Sundays at 6 pm. The harmony of the choir. Uncomfortable pews. Looking at yourself in the mirror and seeing someone you don’t like (you were only 8). Goosebumps. Too many cigarettes. Tequila. An empty fridge. Chapped lips. Bloody fingertips. Updated Google Earth photos. Selling the car. Moving boxes. Tattered sweatshirt sleeves. Cracked book spines. Stained carpets. Pens without ink. 46 notifications. Do not disturb. Needing to go home. Failing to remember the address. 

On Remembering
by Kaylee Walton

The sweetness of tomato sauce. Warm blankets draped over your shoulders. The crackle of the fireplace. Static electricity. The dissonance of being an oldest daughter. White rice. Revelations during a sleepover. Summer rain. The ballad of bullfrogs. McDonald’s on Sunday mornings. Pretending to like coffee. Eventually liking coffee. The space in the bottom of the bookshelf for all your old textbooks you refuse to get rid of. The gold brilliance of his urn. Medicated chapstick. 21,830 moments saved to an external hard drive. September. Closing your eyes to see him again. The crack in the sidewalk shaped like a smile. The way he pursed his lips as he read. Knowing all the words to a song you haven’t heard in three years. The creak of your wicker laundry basket. Love letters scribbled on overdue bills. A farmhouse sink. The gentle taps of paws across the hardwood floor. Puppy breath. Watching the snow fall outside your bedroom window. Being scared to dance. Finally dancing. 

about the author // Kaylee Walton