Shrubs Can’t Talk
By Haleigh Dixon
As my pen grazes the crisp pages of my notebook, the one with thin blue lines cutting through, and delicately downturned dog ears. I distinctly register that I write on the brother of the shrub. The same shrub protecting me from the blistering sun.
Library
I’m a Frozen Pipe
I’ve been torturing myself for months trying to gift-wrap everything I don’t know into prettily packaged words like I'm Maya Angelou. I’d steal her face and wear it as a mask, but if I did, that would be dishonest, and I promised myself I would be honest with you. I’ve decided to step into my skin because the truth is an ugly head with two faces that will charge at you like an angry bull. If the truth doesn’t kill me, my pride will. So, I’ll stop beating around the bush.
I lost my best friend a year ago.
The Pond
The pond sat like a gem in the distance. I have lived here for years but remained regretfully unaware of its presence. Almost as if someone draped my eyes in wool and told me to stay away. But the pond called to me like a siren in the blissful wake of clouds.
23 Chromosomes
Nobody warns you that a permanent goodbye feels like a perpetual state of mourning. I’ve been searching for the answer to acceptance since I let go of Harvard and art museums as a possibility for my future. I didn’t let go because I didn’t think I could do it, I let go because I like to watch things go in slow motion. Even when you watch someone leave in slow motion, something in the air that tells you your time with them is fragile, and your goodbyes – if you get to say goodbye – could turn ugly in the face of vulnerability.