Apricot Press

Dear B————,

As I walked along the highway this late afternoon, I saw a dead fox in the distance. It lay tucked between the tree roots. Decay hastened by this endless rain. Now this will amuse you: the tips of the nearby branches hovered so unnaturally, as if all were aware something had died. I ran toward it. You would’ve laughed and cried out, “Have you seen a ghost?” Yet dead foxes are never as strange as ghosts. When I finally came to it and as I stared at it for ages, I thought of only you. You and your constant teasing that no matter how I rearranged my body, settling the flesh into someone only I had ever seen, you’d say, you always knew it was me. I hope you’re still well. I’ve been shifting more than I should and before my body’s ready to, and yes, that hurts—unspeakably so. I’ve gone everywhere, but nowhere pleases me. What causes this? And everywhere a carcass rots, but lately, I’ve been choked by this need, like plastic around my head, the harder I breathe, the deeper I pull it in. This sudden desire to don the dead’s last face.

What was it about me you always recognized? Was the skin too tight? The shade too inhuman? Nothing like anything you had ever seen, but you had seen it. Were the proportions wrong? But humans all look so different. Will I never know? I want to. More than anything. One day will you let me know? I don’t know how long it’s been since I last wrote or which face you last saw—that final time on the border of the Carolinas. We’ve strayed so far from the days when I’d speak but your voice tumbled out. Two species. One mouth. One remembrance. Maybe two remembrances?

Do you recall when I told you my people believe that every time we shift, we forget a little? A belief meant to keep children from harming themselves. I had believed it held no weight with me, but maybe it does. You shouldn’t have recognized me. That’s not how it goes. Your voice streams through clearest when it critiques, so I know now you’ve called me arrogant. What do I know about how it goes? Tell me your sisters are still well. I hope so and miss them dearly. I wonder, if we ever saw each other again, would you know to say my name, as you’ve known every single time before? I’ve changed everything a thousand times over. I feel so old and so young. I think of you always and so unrelentingly. When I reached that dead fox, I found it was only a log. But I stayed there standing and staring until the night crawled from underneath me. Until a car pulled off the road, and the driver threw on the brakes. I saw their face.

My skin peeled from the muscle again. I suppressed my own scream. Do you still, with both feet planted on the rotten wood of your father’s fence, wait so eagerly for the sunrise? I forever see your face pointed to the sky.

Yours,
G—————

Photo credit: Tom Frances Palattao