Mischief in the treehouse._The Creature Inside_Migration_Treasure Hunting
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Mischief in the treehouse.
One afternoon, during a summer of young adventuring and cut knees, five of us headed off toward the murky river. Passers by would see a group of eleven year olds galavanting to what they assumed was a park, unaware of our hidden place beneath the trees. We had found it mid May, visiting almost every day, even decorating the place as our own. School art drawings hung on to arms of wood balancing upon tree branches sixteen feet above the forest floor. Jagged gaps in the wood, which one of us would scrape the skin of arms or legs on, acting as our door and windowwww.onedoor.ccsWe were careful as we climbed the...
The Creature Inside
The first sign of trouble was the outbreak of the virus in Venice. It had come in on a cruise ship a week into July and spread faster than the speed boats on the Grand Canal. By the end of the second week, the doctors at the Servizio Sanitario Nazionale had announced an estimated death rate of over 85%. By the end of the third week, we were under lockdown. Worse than ebola, tuberculosis, or smallpox was this Grim Reaper in the shape of a microscopic parasite. By week five, the virus had spread as far south as Rome. The Italians called it Signor Morte–Mister Death. Nothing was working. After t...
Migration
MarchI come into the world screaming. The sky is pewter and the air is damp and cold. I have only a dim memory of the dark warmth that insulated me just hours ago. The icy air bites my feathers, which are cold and stick to me, a wet, heavy cloak I cannot remove. My body quakes involuntarily and I want the warmth of tears as I squeeze my eyes closed. They will not come. I lift my head to the heavens and shriek for help. There are only shrieks and screeches around me. I cannot survive in this harsh environment. What will become of me? Mid-MarchI wake to the sun. It is beautiful rising up over th...
Treasure Hunting
Our feet crunched the browning leaves as we trekked through the park. The crisp, cool morning air was more enlivening than my cup of coffee had been. Thanks to my jean jacket, I was comfortable as we continued to an old spot that only I knew of.My hands are warmed not by mittens but by the hands of love. One was much fuller and form-fitting than the other. I looked to the woman whose hand daintily clasped mine and received a smile that parted her red lips. Her curly, blonde locks bobbed as we walked along. Sicily is my guiding ship and my harbor all in one. This voyage with her set sail a few...