wildscape. literary journal

Directions for Finding Home
by Ky L. Gerbush

Go. 

Go back. 

Arrive. As the plane lands, remove an itchy sweatshirt from a time smoothed canvas backpack. Note that a plane can not take you home, only back.  The sweatshirt is a shield, it should communicate that you are “from” here, but no longer “of” here. Bonus points if it lets people know that you are very smart. It should be red. Red, like the crimson blood of pilgrims. It should not be yellow. Yellow like corn. Yellow like your hair. 

Walk. Into the cool air of the airport’s two terminals. Hear the echoing of your voice, “Yes, it’s a good place to be from.”

Argue with the woman at the rental car counter. Do not accept the SUV she offers. Tap manicured nails on the counter. “All that matters is the gas mileage.”

Speed. 

Swerve around Ford F-150s and minivans. Marvel at how uncomfortable it feels to be the tiniest thing on the road. Think, I really don’t fit here anymore. 

Slip into auto-pilot. Head north on large highways that melt into smaller roads. When you see the first cornfield, slow down. Hands wandering mindlessly towards the buttons on your left. 

Pretend. 

Pretend not to notice that, as you breathe in corn pollen, an ache inside your chest eases. Feel the sunshine on your arms. Know precisely when they will start to burn. You possess a body that is tuned to this latitude.

When you pass the football scoreboard next to the highway, next to the Taco Bell that used to be a Dairy Queen, next to the gas station that used to be a McDonalds, next to the new gas station that has “Tap to Pay.”  Know you have come too far to go back. You must turn right. 

Do not turn right. 

Look at the houses. Take inventory:

They are new-ish.

They are nice-ish.

Judge them. 

Houses with brick on the front and baby-vomit-beige vinyl siding everywhere else. Houses with large back porches and cheap man-made lake views.  

Drive past:

A blonde woman with a dog. 

A blonde woman with a dog. 

A blonde woman with two dogs. 

Try to think of a blonde joke with a dog. Think only that these women’s bodies are yours. See their faces as you glance at yours in the rear view mirror. 

Stop at a grocery store that looks like a farm stand. Go inside. Expect to feel lost. Feel disappointed when everything is in the exact place you knew it would be. 

Remember.

Hear your mother. “If you ever step into a fairy ring you must not eat anything because then you’ll never be able to come home.”  

Remember. 

You found a patch of wild strawberries. You could smell them before you saw their little red faces winking up at you out of a ring of deep green grass. Smell sugar in the air. Bees buzz around your mosquito-bitten ankles. How many types of bees could you name as a six year old?

Rusty-Patched Bumble Bee. Ligated Furrow Bee. Sweat Bee. Carpenter Bee. 

Don’t remember. Stare at the glistening strawberries in plastic containers in the store. 

Remember. You pressed an unwashed berry to your lips.

Don’t remember. Feel the chill store air on the nape of your neck prickling your skin into goosebumps. 

Remember, crunching grass, gone brown, a summer with no rain. Withering corn stalks. Someone moved towards you. The coolness of a shadow fell over you. Darkness pressed down, breath stolen from lungs, innocence taken from your child body. Don’t let your mind remember everything your body knows about loss. Mindlessly run your fingers over bruises that are long turned back to flesh, thumb prints faded from your wrist, throat, and thighs. 

Scream. 

Do not scream. 

Do not buy the strawberries. 

Flee to the parking lot. Sky pink like a freshly scraped knee. Pull your phone from your pocket and look at your lock screen. You in the maroon sweater. You stand on the shore of a far away coast. You, laughing with people who don’t have corn pollen in their DNA. 

Think of the women with the dogs. 

Breathe.

Allow yourself to imagine being one of them. 

Breathe.

Imagine watching this sunset from the porch of a brick-and-vinyl house. Put a wine glass in your hand. Put a sign on the wall that says, “The secret ingredient is love…and butter.” Put a man beside you. Give him kind eyes. Listen to your matching accents. Feel no twinge of shame when he says, “Whatcha looking acrost at?” 

Rub your sweaty palms on the crimson sweatshirt. 

Drive. 

Pretend. That there are plural reasons you don’t belong here, not a singular reason. Look at your not-SUV-rental and think, I really don’t fit in here. 

Go back. 

Don’t go back. 

about the author // Ky L. Gerbush