eesha cherukuri
My first love was the scent of the honeysuckle by the pond on the outskirts of the neighborhood where I dared to clamber through the tall grasses by the shoreline. I will fear the snakes when I see them with my own eyes. The sunset looked only redder through my glasses.
There was another bush behind the school, but the children crowded around it at recess. I was too small, and feared, deep down, that a push would shatter the lenses. I will not be blind. I steered away.
Each day I walked home from school through the field around the pond. I grew taller, and the grass didn’t even reach my knees. Seeds made their way into the worn-in high tops I chose so I could feel like the star of the show. I giggled and ignored the way my ankles itch. Home is just one house down, anyway.
Each summer, I waited for the honeysuckle to bloom again. The nectar still tasted like summer evenings, but so little of it. I ripped a branch off the bush. Remorse prickled the back of my eyes. I tuck a flower behind the frames of my glasses and remind myself of the romance of broken things.
I saw the snakes with my own eyes. They were red and cream and black, with eyes the color my hair used to be before I decided I was too boring. I detested them for ruining my watercolor fantasy with their dollar store crayons. My visits became less and less frequent. There was nothing left to stay for.
I started to explore the other flowers around the pond. I found a secret garden around the remains of the neighbors’ old pond house. There were peonies the size of my hand. I picked them and brought them home. I do not feel remorse for them anymore. I need to hold my home in the palm of my hand for safekeeping.
This year, we left the house near the pond on the outskirts of the neighborhood where I dared to clamber through the tall grasses by the shoreline. As we drove away, my mother said it was time to switch out my glasses for contact lenses.