Laine
Wilde
The Woman
Each morning from September until April,
as the sun tries to rise over Clearbrook Park, it finds no path through the
dark clouds that cap the dense fog. Fog which refuses entry even to the light
desperately reaching out from the Victorian style lampposts; the ornate lampposts
alternate along the sides of the only path from the east gateway that will lead
to the black and white stone bridge resting over the park’s namesake in the
south. Any other time of year, an onlooker could sit on the edge of the open
bridge and swing his feet just inches above the shallow, translucent water
bubbling up over the beautiful white quartz making up the brook bed, and he
might find it quite remarkable. At this time of year, however, there are no such
onlookers and the quick rush of the brook has chilled, almost frozen, to become
a slow-moving gloss for the quartz bed. For six months, the entire park becomes
as unwelcoming as the Carolina Wren poking its little beak out from the inconspicuous
birdhouse nailed to a Dogwood by the bridge. He wouldn't be leaving the park
until the clouds opened and cleared the fog away.
On the far side of the path, outside
of the park, a young woman stands as if to challenge the mist’s stranglehold
over the park. She forgets the bench from where she just sat thinking. Nervous
as she is, her shivering is more from the bite of the dawn’s breeze through her
lion-colored trench jacket. She can feel the cold of the first frost even under
her emerald sundress, the tendrils of cold snapping against her tan skin, and
immediately, she regrets not buying winter clothing after her move from Saint
Croix. She steps forward into the park,
her braided black hair and golden eyes overwhelmed by the grasp of the
fog. She can no longer hear her feet as
she walks. The silence of her walk engulfs her sight, and stifles her sense of
smell. Around her, the fog does not part or dissipate. Trembling, the breeze
never made it into the fog yet still she feels it and she has never felt more alone,
she goes cautiously but with all the confidence she can gather from her past.
Her feet ground her to the only thing she can sense, and she reaches out hoping
to stroke a lamppost as she passes. She holds her breath, counting; there, that
familiar sensation of cold, hollow, metal up against her fingers calms her and
draws her closer. She continues on the path, not dreading her decision, though
pained that she is too far and cannot turn back. She does not know the twists
of the path and she concentrates on the feeling beneath her black strapped
sandals. The next lamppost touches against her other outstretched hand and she
knows the other side of the path. In time, this becomes easy for her and in
this way, she walks onwards.
Under her feet, a few fallen leaves
crumple and she wonders if she stepped in the wrong direction. She touched a
lamppost not long ago, she thinks, but is interrupted as something brushes
harshly against her face. She touches it, discovering that it is rough, thin, and
bendable. Relieved now that she feels the origin of the leaves, she holds onto
the branch so that it does not hit her as she walks under it. Her feet hit
stone, and she recognizes the feeling from the path by her home in Saint Croix.
A twinge of sadness strikes her heart; she misses walking that path to the
beach where she met friends so often. A reminiscing smile plays across her face
as she remembers the first time her younger sister joined her and her friends
to swim in the dark. She is curious about why there is stone underneath her and
she stoops to touch it. Her fingers hit nothing; she pulls them back and feels
the side of the stone. Sliding her hand up the side, she knows that she is by
an edge and positions herself carefully. She scoots forward, still sliding her
hand to keep track of the edge. Her forefinger touches something soft and it
gives a little, she feels grains of dirt as they mash into her fingers.
Embarrassed, she straightens up and wipes off her hand. As she laughs, her
sound is stolen by the depth of the fog and she notices again that she is
alone. She feels her sandals pressing
against the soft path again, the resistance building as she moves further away
from the stone. She walks and stretches
out her arms. Tapping another lamppost, she knows her direction and walks.
She is blinded. Frightened but
ecstatic, she understands she can see now. The breeze nips at her legs, and she
shivers. The smell of coffee from across the street and the sound of struggling
night workers driving home greet her to a world so different than a time ago. Her
eyes open and rays of the late dawn’s sun can be seen glancing off the pepper
red monkey bars to her right. She turns to look back. The fog stops directly
behind her, the end of her braid swings around and wisps of the thick mist
cling to it. She looks up and sees just a few piercing drops of sun above the Clearbrook
Park clouds. She loves the feeling of excitement after an adventure, but soon
the return to this world loses its novelty and forgetting the park, she walks
away to search for the coffee.
·
Wilde,
L. (Fall 2012). The Woman. Ferrum
College, V.A.; Chrysalis (Arts & Literature Journal)
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