transitioning
I spent the autumn hunting so that I might live through winter without having to trek back into the village. The game was sparse, but I salted enough venison and canned enough tartberries to stock my pantry. Everything started dying but the wolves in the eaves. Some nights I could see them stalking in between the trees, just out of reach of my light. Dozens of pairs of marble eyes, pacing an endless perimeter around my cabin. I smoked until the smell of vanilla tobacco was impossible to scrub from my fingernails.
After the snow fell, I noted that the ghosts were restless. I could see them most every evening. Some I invited in for tea, others I just waved to. Those that accepted my offer of chamomile sat on my porch, envious that my fingers didn’t pass through my rolling papers, that the smoke didn’t dissipate through my chest and into the chilly air. ‘Somewhere in these woods is a set of stairs, descending into the earth,’ they said. ‘It’s the only thing that can give us peace.’
Without fail, each and every single one would bury its face into its hands and moan. ‘I was too young to die.’ The paraffin I used to seal my cans was no good, and most of the jars of berries I had to throw away, uneaten. Winters tend to be hard, I reminded myself, waiting for whatever it is that comes next.
(Photo: Dyrk.Wyst)
