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And where the trees parted by God Herself reveal hundreds of wishes left to be granted, you’ll know you’ve finally arrived home. No man made trails here, we must observe the Earth with a loving gaze, remember the way She bends to and fro for us to find our way back to each other. Once you reach the beginning of the babbling brook, follow the ichthus until you run into cotton linens hung to dry and the scent of lavender which you so despise. I’ll hear your rustling and rush up to meet you with an embrace, we’ll be picturesque against the ombre of the setting sun. We’ll sigh in the pure air and let our muscles relax into each other. At peace.
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When I’m asked what my happy place is, I itch to illustrate this slice of a dream. However, I never do. I always say something much more within my reach like, alone in Central Park on a cloudy, spring afternoon with a breeze rushing over me just when I’m getting too warm. Or, an empty high school football field at night, staring up at all the planes mistaken for stars with a friend. I know that a modicum of peace and happiness are available in those places, but not as much as I crave for me and my lover. Nevertheless, tranquility for people like us is only an empty prayer to an unforgiving listener.
Queer and black, we’d be happy to die of any natural causes. My darling is getting close to using up half of their life expectancy and everytime a white man looks at me too long I can see my life among Gaia’s brooks dry. We live in the suburbs, where if we scream our neighbors might hear us, might care, might call the police who might be the ones who actually kill us. If we lived in this mirage, who would be able to put out the fire the burning cross in our yard started. Who would come cut us strange fruit down from the once blessed trees. Would we finally know peace as the smell of burning flesh came and went, spirits forever tied to the godly land of godless people.
The Terrain can only protect us so much from the determination of white people. She would do Her best to take care of us after we passed, reincarnating us as other fishes in Her brook. We would have to pass by the trees, the yard, reminders of what took us all those months, years, centuries ago. We would learn that the other ichthus was an enslaved black boy in his other life, this too was his home. He loved to watch the sky move into each color so seamlessly. We would mourn being just out of reach of the blooming dandelions when Spring came. So many wishes, so so so many wishes.
“Why must we die to find peace,” my lover would ask me, “to be safe, finally. Why can’t we rest when we’re alive.”
I don’t know darling, I don’t know.