A flag, a Joysey standard. Raise it high and proud above the any, all of us as upright as poles. Over the Gatekeeper’s, He remembers…the Development’s, too, had been blue and white and red, with a house in the middle field, stripped of family, its siding striped and windows starry. Benjamin slows into the pace of this memory, the sidewalk stroll from house to house, everyone of them known and the neighbors within them, knowing. An afternoon with His mother recovering outside for a walk, Hanna in the stroller, with Him pushing, to remember…these woods aren’t familiar, though, nothing doing. The little greenery He’d glimpsed, that’d been gardened, neatly, plots both herb and flower left untilled for the season of His birth, with the rest and more public of it landscaped, kept to grated planters along the slabs of Apple, Birch, Cedar, concrete, asphalt, planted to take root amid gravel that would ground the tankings of tiny pet fish, Judy’s gold, those upsidedown floaters flushed down the drain; with the odd weed, Developmentapproved rest assured, superadded for the sake of diversity. Trees separated, appropriately, spaced at intervals surveyed, all paid for by — Depro, the Development Prettification Organization, His father a founding member, and as such open, fair and solicitous, from donations received at the generously anonymous. Each tree would have its sign to own, tacked at trunk: Pick Up After Your Dog, as imaged with a mensch without face kneeling to scoop at poop; Curb Your Dog, no, curb your meaning; No Littering, except for the litters that are signs; alongside plaques that identified each tarred tree with its sponsor, whether individual or business, which was an excellent tax deduction — welcome to the sacred grove of the accountants, Mister Buchhalter, CPA, from down the block a ways.
Half Benjamin expects those other placards, the Latinate wood, those that identify tree from trees, and from forest, which sort as to type, Genus, species—as if to provide an experience more welcoming, more understanding, by way of introduction to the outer world, the earth unkempt by our trivial science. Him left unprepared for such surroundings, then, these trees so oddly intertwining, grown up from out the earth at any which way angle: these trunks writhing, without fruit, around each other and up; a canopy of closing trunks, obliterating the above; the occasional two trees merged entirely into one, forking into another, growing out the other; strangling two trees growing out from their trunk shared, mutual roots, common ground argued over in a high, conflicting silence…spindly burnouts starved of bark to peel from bone, their pleading limbs waved fanatically, fingers spread to the vault in a supplication charred, and chilling. He makes past them all on tiptoe into berryless branches, bush, through the webs of spiders, their spinneretwork sticking to His face, sticking His mouth from saying, fine dewed silk that holds the light, and then’s ripped through, torn by sound, by the gust with which it’s brought — the faint rataplan of wind, a clattering of the clouds with brandished branches. Fire tears the Kieferöde, a weapon unloading into the later sky, each bullet the beat of a wing…birds scatter, the echoes of their calls disperse into wind, as winds themselves; the snow snows on unabated. And then the smell, which is the promise of smoke, of heatless smolder, then the pineneedles, too, to Him an outer household disinfectant without any hint of that Floridian citrus, PopPop’s balmy lemonlime: more like an organic dank, an illicit wetness, as if of the panties of His mother schlepping, at the end of a long long day of rushing around, vomitous at depthless stink, the basement’s crotch, that of rot’s own grandmother, mind the hip, the slip to break all cracks; the reek pervades, subsumes, wafts spore, fungi and lichen under the horizon’s door — the woods, He wipes His mouth, an abandoned bathroom…to remember the womb, fold fast the underwear drawer. He’s wet Himself; what’s let is frozen; His knees are spurs of ice.
