I’m reading this story in the hopes that it tells me something. Something that I don’t already know. Something that connects me to the world or its people in some meaningful way. Something that changes anything.
The story starts in a field. A field of ferns in the forest.
The field goes beyond view.
But not forever.
Inside the ferns is a kind of forever though. Like it would take an eternity to explore every facet.
Every plant. Every leaf. Every groove.
Its layers are comprised of other layers.
The textures and shapes comprising them turn into the textures and shapes that comprise them.
Everything has a certain sameness to it.
A sameness I share.
In the depths.
At the true beginning of the story.
I can see myself as the fern now. Then.
A little collection of them in the corner of the field. My presence spills out in a messy circle. I’m more a part of the ferns at the center and less as they go out. But there’s no hard edge where it stops being me and begins being something else.
Borders have ceased being borders when the story becomes about a wolf.
Standing in the tall grass.
It’s the same field as the ferns. Thousands…maybe millions of years have passed.
Now there’s a gray wolf in this field.
She watches amid yellow blades under blank blue.
Grassroots poke her pads.
The damp earth cooling.
The wolf breathes and I smell the scents of prey from the night before.
I no longer know what color the fur is on the wolf’s back because I’m the wolf.
In the field.
I’m drawn to this field.
Made to experience the same place in a different way.
It’s not like any story I’ve ever read.
It’s more like a memory, showing me: This happened.
Even if you don’t remember…
It’s completely terrifying.
But it’s also kind of comforting, you know? Like, imagine if it were all true?
I know what you must be thinking.
But please know, this isn’t me.
It makes me wonder.
Maybe it’s your story. Your memory.
Because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know where the line is between me and the ferns and the story and you.