May 8, 2024

I sit on the wraparound porch of my childhood home. The wood panels are painted blue, they would sing with my footsteps. By the porch window looking into my home the crypt sat two picnic chairs, with a plastic table between them. There my father sat, usually with a beer in hand and a friend to join him. Today, he could be found lying in a bed, somewhere south. 

But here, anything was possible. Magic was attainable. Here I am home. Here, my hair is being braided with yellow dandelions, my coils and curls swallow them.

My mom hums an unknown tune, she smells of incense, her aroma sways me to rest. Her long nails drag themselves across my scalp. I relax as she massages my head, lying into her legs. I am limp with content, but soon interrupted by a neighbor, trying to join in on the fun. She skips down the walkway. Her cheeks are rose. Her miniature hands (nails painted amethyst) sway back and forth. She is not entirely here, as she is always somewhere in her imagination. 

She sits beside me. Her moons glare at my hair. The small teeth lined with silver and candy smile at my fairy crown. She asks to join me in my transformation. My mom makes her finishing touches to my crown, then my friend takes my spot in my mother’s lap. 

I stare off at the horizon. 

My face is warm, the summer never felt so at ease. The sky is slowly taken over with gray. The air becomes thick and sweet, filling my lungs with sticky sugar-like water. My hair sits straight, stretching to my shoulders. School is out, I am free. Thunder rolls somewhere far away, warning of the coming storm. The wind carols, brushing the hair out my face. Birds depart their homes, soon to be destroyed by a god’s rage. I walk farther down the path with a new friend, a sweet love. 

To our surprise, rain falls. The soil beneath us turns to mud. My hair crinkles and melts into locks of coils, weighing my head down. I take off my sandals and feel my feet sink into the soil. Worms dance at the sign of good tidings, frogs jump in celebration. We enjoy it for a short while, allowing our shirts to become drenched, hugging our bodies tight. The rain is warm, yet our bodies shiver. We continue to walk until I am called back home by my aunt. We drag ourselves back to the car, wet, feet soaked and dirty. The ride home is filled with music and laughter. He smells like a wet dog. I smell like hair products: minerals and shea butter. 

I make it home. The house is an igloo. I take off my soiled clothes and hop into a hot shower, washing dirt off my body. I get out and change into pajamas, then,

I braid my hair.

The horizon bustles, a bang bellows. Lightning, accompanied by its best friend, thunder, is back. My mom hustles the last braid of the neighbor. Her braids drape to her shoulder, some stems sticking out, the flowers waving to me. She tells me a storm is coming. Apparently, it was her superpower to ‘just know things like that.’ We talk for a while. Walking through the high grass, picking at flowers and bugs. She is the fairy of weather, I am the fairy of teleportation and magic. We run up and down the fields as if escaping each other’s magical powers. Little cartwheels and nonsensical statements. You could hear our yelling and laughter from a block away. 

My mother calls. We walk back from our field. Rain drenches the sidewalk, speaking to my friend. She runs to her home for dinner. I walk back alone. My dandelions are overjoyed by the message. I run fast down the sidewalk. Floating on air. I come into the house, and my mother gives me a bubble bath. My father laughs at my upset expression: the rain. They carry me to my room, 

I crawl under the sheets,

Outside my window, a bolt of lightning flashes through the sky. I turn on a movie, and distract myself from the oncoming storm. Another bang. I tense. The wind sounds like trains, racing to my room. 

I hold my breath, then—darkness:

I’m scared.

I know.

Will I never not be afraid? Will I always be holding my breath? 

No, you won’t.

So will I change?

No. You’ll grow.

There is no difference in that, whatsoever.

People cannot change. You will always be you. You will be the same.

But, I am older. So therefore, I am more mature, more resilient.

The resilience you see in adults isn’t real, it’s fake. A lot of things are an act. 

So is mom scared? Is dad scared, too?

We can’t know that.

So what can I know?

Nothing. Everything you seem to know, you actually do not know at all. 

That’s scary.

It’s just truth.

How do I know you’re telling me the truth? 

My eyes open. My mouth is dry, a milky, yeasty taste. The sun drapes into my room, warming my brown skin. The lawnmower wakes the burrowed bunnies. They hop away. My mom wakes me up with kisses all over, her lipstick swallows and paints my skin. I join my dad downstairs, and devour my plate of pancakes. I run outside with my yellow boots on and a raincoat. My friend waits. We run out to our field, playing our fairy game. 

Therein lies magic.

Here, there is truth.