Popping Stitches by Sarah Gay
Read by Conner Arnold
When I was a little girl, I had convinced myself that I was a witch.
I remember taking my beach toys into the front yard to concoct
Salves of crabapples, creekwater, various stolen fruits from the neighbor’s farm,
and the rampant hogweed that grew at the mouth of the woods
I was expressly forbidden to explore.
I used a walking stick — surely not because my “old aching bones” needed the support
Of a wet and bowing apple branch — but I simply figured,
“Yes, I am a witch, and this is what witches do.”
My cape was made of a nappy red velvet and mottled lace. I had found it while rummaging
through old halloween costumes in the basement.
The winter months of Eastern Michigan aren’t kind to 60 pound girls in threadbare costume attire,
But my childish naivety was an unparalleled warmth.
And after hours of picking crabapples from the lowermost branches in the front yard,
And catching up with my favorite ghosts in the horse stable,
I would wander home: cheeks, nose, and ears to match my scarlet cape.
Now, at twenty-one years old, I live in beautiful Southern California.
I have no crabapples trees in my front yard, nor do I really have much of a front yard to speak of.
There is no creek that meanders and disappears into the treeline of some overgrown realm,
Unless you call the LA river a whimsical gateway to concrete jungle.
Nor are there any ghosts in my local Starbucks — trust me I’ve checked.
I have found no need for a walking stick as I have discovered the godsend that is public transportation.
It is 80 degrees outside, and I’m sweating.
In a tizzy of homesick and want of fresh air,
I recently returned home to see my father.
He still lives in that house next to the woods and,
Much like himself, the house is still standing;
Though now it lists and bows and is quite round in the middle.
He has long since cut down the crabapple trees to make room for a new wife,
With her vegetable gardens and perfectly pruned perennials.
The horses have either been sold or have died off,
And the stables are still and lonely.
Somehow, they don’t feel haunted anymore.
The woods
(I’ve realized after a quick look at Google Maps)
Are only a quarter of a mile deep and end right behind Subway I’ve always hated.
The basement
The part of this home’s brain that holds The Forgotten Things,
Now holds the very fabric of my beginnings.
Among musty stuffed animals and yellowing photos,
A rusted iron headboard and a rotting dresser:
A bucket, a shovel, a stick, and a cape.
It doesn’t fit me anymore.
I’m almost embarrassed to admit to you that I even tried it on.
The hem falls awkwardly below my hips,
Tighter there, now.
The sleeves choke my elbows.
The tie around the hood cuts satin lines under my chin,
And the stitches pop when I breathe.
I feel fit to burst,
pop
Like some monstrous, unnatural thing
pop
A villain, a devil, a barbarian
pop
Boogeyman, Mr.Hyde, Grendel, some Monster of Dr.Frankenstein’s
pop pop pop
So this is what it feels like to finally grow up.
The facade unravels and-
it pops again.
I die a little every time it does.
I take it off and hang it up under the stairs.
A scarlet ghost of a girl just alive enough to see herself
Somehow taller, now,
Walk in the opposite direction
And shut off the lights.
I took a walk in the woods tonight.
Nobody told me not to.
And to be honest,
I’m not sure how to feel about that.
