Omens

A letter.

Dear friends,

Dear friends. I like how that sounds. My last post opened that way, too—more like a letter, less like an essay. I never set out to write essays, but looking back, that’s pretty much what I’ve done. Makes sense: In the years predating Reflecting Light, I worked as an essay scorer for standardized testing, grades 7-12. It was one of two remote jobs I picked up during the pandemic. Over many months, I read thousands of essays, some incomprehensible and concerning, others like a shot in the arm. Some were hilarious. I would share an especially memorable quote, but I signed something that swore on my life I wouldn’t. It’s just as well. The words exist solely between the student and me, like a look between strangers, or an anonymous note found on the ground. The words feel precious and alive. Essays penned by pimply teenagers revived my love of language at a time when that love was dim and flickering, like a Pokémon before it passes out. They showed me how to write with intent again. How to structure and expand upon my thoughts. It’s no wonder I gravitated to essay writing. (This, by the way, is not an essay. This is a letter.) The other job I took involved cold calling adults with disabilities and asking them to participate in a survey. Besides wanting to be of service and earn money, I thought the job would rid me of my fear of talking on the phone. It did not. Despite numerous calls I made, day in and day out, my hands continued to drip, my heart raced, and my voice shook, even with a script (that I wrote) in front of me. The work was exhausting. I eventually quit and returned to scoring essays before leaving to provide direct support to adults with disabilities—work I have continued to pursue. Every day, I’m grateful for my job. Not only does it benefit others whilst helping to sustain my creative life, but it gets me out and into the world. If left to my own devices, I might not see or speak to another person besides Will (and Greg) for days, possibly weeks, or months at a time. People assume I’m antisocial. And I am. Yet I love humans. They are perfect and flawed. I get a kick out of just being in someone else’s world for a while. Sitting with them in their living room. Seeing inside their fridge. Learning what they value. There are infinite ways to live and experience life, all of them valid, all of them true. As I go between worlds, one thing is apparent: Everyone wants to feel that their life matters. No one, not even the most antisocial among us, wants to feel left out or ignored. Or forgotten. (This, by the way, is a sign that you should reach out to someone in your life and remind them in a subtle or not-so-subtle way that they matter.) Greg lives in the cave on the northwest side of the lake. Or he did; I haven’t checked in on him in a while. The path, which was accessible and lined with wildflowers in spring, is now, at the peak of summer, infested with weeds, ticks, and snakes. Imagine the path as the outline of a giant eye, and the lake is the iris/pupil, gazing up at a steep bank of trees, which are eyelashes. Within the eyelashes, on the lash line, there is a speck, a stye. That’s Greg’s cave. I didn’t know the man’s name until the couple who lost their cat told me. “That’s Greg—he’s awesome.” The cat’s name was Omen. You can’t name a cat that and expect nothing to happen. In early spring, the cat got away and ran into the park—a sprawling woods—and down through the eyelashes to the path, where for months I walked daily and Greg lived (or lives). LOST CAT signs were posted everywhere. Live traps laid. But no Omen. Only a confused raccoon, which is a kind of omen. “Greg has seen her around. He feeds the rats.” The rats feed the snakes. Who is feeding Greg? Is Greg okay? The cave is a considerable distance from any of the park’s entrances, and the last time I saw the man, he was on crutches. The path often gets washed out by rain. One time, I offered to help Greg traverse a particularly treacherous section, and he declined. But not without a smile and a joke about not having health insurance. “I’m joking—I have health insurance. I just don’t use it.” What’s going on, Greg? By late spring, I was seeing Greg almost every day. He was usually walking, or hobbling, along the path like me, or tending a fire down by the lake or up on the ridge, the eyelid crease. I wasn’t especially fond of the fires Greg built. For one, they displaced animals and left circles of black soot in their wake. Second, the flames threatened to jump and spread like, well, you know. Despite the oft-waterlogged path, the overhanging foliage was crisp. Stare hard enough, and it might have combusted. “Hey, how ya doing?” “Good,” I always responded, “you?” “Can’t complain. Well, I can, but I won’t.” And so on, and so on, our lives overlapping, criss-crossing like vines clambering up the crabapple trees. During this time, I also frequently saw the couple who lost their cat. They came down in the evenings after work, same as me. “Any sign of her?” “Nooo,” they always said, voices tinged with sadness and increasing defeat. Me? I got addicted to watching the wildflowers bloom—a symphony of staggered beauty. This is how I am. I get really into one thing and obsess over it to the exclusion of everything else. It’s why I’m not allowed to watch many TV shows, even though I love TV shows. I could watch back-to-back series from now until forever, and be perfectly at ease. I mean, in every other respect, my life would be rotted, a pit of bad pulp. But otherwise, I would be grand. Self-actualized, even. Instead, I got obsessed with going to see if the Dutchman’s breeches had emerged from the earth and dangled their tiny white pantaloons out for all to see and swoon over. Then the columbine and wild geraniums. Then the viburnum. Then whatever was over there. And there. And there. Every day, some new delight sprang up and wooed me into returning the next day, hungry, expectant. My legs got strong from walking so much. I felt strong. “Be careful,” said Greg’s friend, as I strode by in mid-June. He was sitting outside the cave. Greg wasn’t at home. “I just saw the biggest snake I’ve ever seen. It had diamonds on its back.” My run-ins with the cat couple dwindled until one day they stopped. The traps disappeared, yet the signs remained, soggy, torn. When Omen first ran away, the leaves were lime green and budding, and it was easier to spot her black tail, swishing among the eyelashes. Now, it was impossible. Can a snake eat a cat? If a snake is large enough, like a python, then yes, it can. How long can a person go without eating? Generally speaking, one to two months. Greg ate food, or at least, he gathered things to eat. The remnants of foodstuff often spilled out of the cave—a cascade of empty bottles, foil, cardboard, cans—like a fridge turned on its side. “Greg has a job,” the cat couple told me, before our lives, our vines, got severed. Before the snakes came. Where does Greg work? At the time of writing, I work in human services, assisting people with disabilities. My role entails helping people help themselves in myriad everyday ways. This includes housing support. Greg is reminiscent of someone who might receive (or benefit from) the type of service I provide. I intended to inquire, to ask without prying, Greg, do you need, or would you like, assistance finding stable housing? What else do you need? But then the head-height weeds and bloodthirsty ticks and diamond-back snakes invaded, and I found myself taking a different, less perilous path, one where I didn’t have to hold my breath as I blindly forged ahead and prayed no wingless, armless creature wriggled underfoot. The upper eyelid closed. For me. I don’t know about Greg. I haven’t been brave enough to go back and see if he’s still there. I would like to. I would like to know how he’s doing. What he’s doing. If he’s okay. How is he handling the mosquitoes? Has he seen the cat, or any other omens? It’s Greg, right? Nice to meet you, Greg. I’m Al—short for Allison. I see you all the time. (This, by the way, was an essay. Or essay-esque.) What else is there to say? Thank you for enduring the length of this letter and its never-endingness. If I stop, even to take a paragraph break, I risk the words slipping through my fingers or ceasing to exist at all. You understand, I hope. To keep going is the only way forward. There is no turning back, only bravely, foolishly stumbling ahead, towards the cliff’s sheer edge. On that note, I leave you with a photograph, a self-portrait, perhaps a portent of what is to come. ✶