Maybe Flow­ers Would Grow Soon

The Iowa Review - - NEWS - Is­abelle davis

Ilike to walk.1 This comes from my mom. Her legs are longer than mine, but when we walk to­gether they do not cover more area than mine do. I know this must be some type of magic, mir­a­cle, re­sult­ing from our close­ness. I first dis­cov­ered it in the sixth grade when we hiked to­gether in Wy­oming, in Yel­low­stone, and our feet fell next to each other at ev­ery step.

When peo­ple, my mom, me, get up­set, walk­ing is some­times the only an­swer. Things will seem es­pe­cially wrong and we will put down our wine. This al­ways means trou­ble, to put down our wine. We pull out the leash. We say, Come on, Com­miskey. He gets very ex­cited, run­ning around the house, jump­ing into our laps. My mom likes to walk for miles when the win­ter fi­nally ends.2 We walk in the bright, bright sun and we do not bring any sun­glasses, we let it hit our eyes. We let it in. A hor­ri­ble­ness lifts when the tops of our heads warm up, and then our shoul­ders, and then the rest.

It is hard to pre­tend that sea­sonal de­pres­sion does not af­fect you when you are al­ready sad, sen­si­tive, crum­bling at the touch.

Win­ter lasts years3 and then it is over.4

Newspapers in English

Newspapers from USA

© PressReader. All rights reserved.