Meta LeCompte

I was sixteen when I walked past tall aspens. There was a vibration. Something lilac, or plum. It made me fold forward and rip apart roots. The roots, I remember, smelled like sugar. Below it all was a bone. A bone in the shape of an “F”. When I held it, my fingernails were black. It felt like a cactus had pricked me. I dropped the bone quickly, and on impact it combusted into water. (A whole tide!) I had to hold my breath, wait for the rolling to stop. Seconds before I was about to gasp, let water into my lungs, a much smaller tide took my body. It laid me down gently into my own bed. And I gulped the air that I had taken for granted.

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