In September, girls wear plaid
again, walk to school, agonize over notebooks and pencils, braids.
You vow to pay attention this year. Again. Pay attention. Pit
yourself against the tedium. The apples. Storybooks.
Pay attention.
We make paper leaves, as if there
aren't enough to be had already. As if there might be a leaf
shortage this fall, and we are obligated to compensate for nature's
poor planning. In the classroom, symmetry is important. In nature,
it is not.
Pay attention.
Each color of construction paper
tastes different from the others, and when chewed carefully,
the dye can be sucked out, swallowed. You are filling yourself
with colors, the red of war, the ominous strength of black, the
sultry, verdant greens. This ritual is important, like how eating
the remains of one's enemy infuses their spirit into you. In
quantity, colors can do the same thing.
Pay attention.
Wet construction paper remains.
Pulpy gray clumps are ideal for landscaping protective circles
on the underside of the desk. Hill and valley. When danger strikes,
you can run your fingers around the circle. One prayer for each
dried clump. They make odd dental imprints, an inversion of teeth.
Funny how children know the meanings of symbols without being
told. Perhaps we find what we need, in times of great emergency.
Pay attention.
Multiplication tables seem so
immaterial. As long as one understands the idea, why memorize
the table? There are other, more important, things to think about.
Like, why are the letters on the page skittering around like
venomous insects? Legs and feelers and pincers. Will they escape
the page? Attack? You cannot close the book or someone will ask
why. Be brave. This is not real.
Pay attention.
Valley Forge has a certain appeal,
like a moment of respite, although they spent two years in Jockey
Hollow, which, apparently was much more bitter. At least death
in those places was real, something which could be talked about.
Frostbite, gangrene, exposure. The other little girls are nervous
of your silences, your refusal to speak. You are afraid of what
you might say. You might tell them that the cinderblock walls
in the basement are gently weeping blood. Be brave. This is not
real.
Pay attention.
You tell your mother, pretend
it was a dream. You have made friends with the snakes which live
on the threshold. Snakes can make circles of themselves. Little
girls cannot.
Pay attention.
Fear is immaterial when we decide
that death is random, that no one has power over the monster
under the bed, that it will get her whether she is awake or asleep.
Might as well sleep. Day or night, it doesn't much matter. She
might as well sleep.
Pay attention.
They do not know the difference
between reality and illusion. You are a master of sorting. This
is Real. This is Not. You've learned to spot a lie from 50 paces
off. You can walk a straight line when the floor rises and falls
in a violent wake. You know the floor is flat, it only appears
to lurch and sway. Be brave. This is not real.
Pay attention.
No one notices, except for the
strange paleness. The concentration. You are given an allergy
shot, maybe it's mold or dust which causes you to be so silent,
so intense. Photos show the circles under your eyes. Maybe she's
sick. You fall into bed at the end of the day, exhausted, drawing
circles in the night air.
Pay attention.
It is important to maintain one's
silence or anything you say will be disbelieved. Even when they
know it is true, you will be told you are imagining things. She
has such a wonderful imagination. Brilliant. What an agile mind.
Pay attention.
September girls walk home from
school. Up the toboggan trail. In the woods, everything is real.
Jack-in-the-pulpit, skunk cabbage, birch. These things are real,
the earth thick. In a few years, you will come here to smoke
cigarettes. It will snow, you will be cold.
Pay attention.
We wear plaid, make paper leaves,
as if there aren't enough to be had already. As if there might
be a leaf shortage this fall, and we are obligated to compensate
for nature's poor planning.
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