Geese, Berries and Benches
by Nicole Lowman

--The bus squeals to a halt in front of your apartment complex. The wheezing yellow beast stinks of plastic and dirty socks. Snickers and sneers of “loser” and the like echo through the seats as you hoist your backpack onto your right shoulder. Lots of cool kids in your class have the bags with only one strap, tailored for the hipsters that sag to one side. The purple Jansport you’ve had for the past two years hardly measures up. You got new sneakers for school this year; your purple pack was still functional.
--The doors welcome you with open arms. As you’re rushing toward them, a fifth-grader sticks a red Converse All-Star across the aisle. You lose your balance and struggle to keep from toppling by grabbing the seat in front of the perpetrator. A curly mop top dances as chuckles at your expense fill the air. Your face heats up, turning red as embarrassment and sheer hatred override your thoughts. Just keep walking. It’s not worth it. None of them are.
--This anger infests your brain but you can do nothing. The last time you retaliated, the bus driver suspended you for three days. The school does not allow anyone to cross route 123 alone. You had to sneak away and run through the bushes to get home. The corner of Mr. Thompson’s office occupied your lunch hour. Turkey always tasted like cardboard in that room. You want to grab that mass of fusilli hair and slam it into the ribbed aisle. This is irrational. Leave the bus. Compose yourself.
--Each step lowers you closer to a horde of raspberry bushes. Their tender berries have satisfied many an after school craving. Classmates have warned against germs and disease tainting these robust morsels. Their theories never sustain.
--The yellow monstrosity rattles toward town, still carrying that crafty mop top. You wish an accident, some catastrophe leaving families in tears. Mop top will survive to berate you another day. It has never changed. You assume that it never will.
--And you assume he will never leave. He has infected your home for nearly five years. Your mother realizes nothing. Nothing that made you detest him. Something about his eyes she said. Sea green. Captivating. She feigns happiness. You think she is insane.
--In the pond flocks of geese are calling. They must be expecting your loaf of crusts. Little have they realized. This loaf is bi-weekly, directly coinciding with the number of lunches he eats in a week: liverwurst, onions and cheese.
--There is no bread today. Before school you checked the refrigerator, six slices remained. Your bench welcomes you even when you have no bread. From there the whole pond is visible. Each family of geese floats gracefully together, the mother hissing whenever any creature approaches her young. The babies sometimes block the flow of traffic – thankfully you have never seen one run over – and the mother still hisses at the vehicles. When you watch the geese you think of your own mother. She cannot protect you. She cannot protect herself.
--Gazing across the street, you see your house sitting on the hill. The windows are like eyes looming. Anyone can see you contemplating your next move.
--Instinct pushes you toward them. Away from your geese. Away from your juicy berries.
--They must be downstairs. Him on the loveseat, legs stretched over the armrest, scratching beard splatter-painted across his jaw. The smell of liverwurst and onions lingers on breath. This stench is now intermingled with the flavor of barley and hops. In his hands rests a thick paperback with some mythological creature decorating the cover.
--Her in the kitchen. Perched at a round table. White light illuminates a pile of papers. They surround her, cluttering the table. She scribbles frantically. Sapphire eyes jump from page to page. Feathered hair frames her face. A hint of vanilla graces her neck.
--It happens again.
--His guttural voice hammers. She curls up. A small woman withering at her kitchen table. Her eyes sheltered by quivering hands. She says nothing. He wheels in frustration.
--Trapped in your corner bedroom you rock cross legged on the floor. The walls darken while his voice growls. He rambles – some insignificant past – calls her a whore. Something crashes. You hide beneath your pillow. Thoughts of death, murder, contaminate your mind. No one would know. No one would miss him. He was drunk again. His tire – it must have been defective – popped and suddenly he swerved out of control. Out of control.
--As light tangos through the leaves, the chaos of your house buries itself beneath your consciousness. Silent screams and bellowing brews cease. Trees envelop your geese and your berries, their intricate bark-bodies tower. Their trunks are stable, unmoving. Their branches house the chattering birds and scampering squirrels. Their arms protect you from rainstorms, even sunshine.
--As you lower yourself onto your bench, crisp pollen tickles the tip of your nose. Across the pond daffodils dance among sentinel reeds. They shimmy and shake while a family of geese emerges to take their afternoon dip. Gradually, the geese notice you plopped on your sagging bench. The water ripples as they approach, each goose squawks in turn, spreading the word that dinner has arrived. The geese are relentless; they will crowd around honking their beaks as if more noise would produce more crumbs. When they swarm like this, you venture into the woods.
--A jagged boulder juts from the mouth of the forest, inclined at a steep angle, each indentation and rough edge hand-chiseled to resemble a face. The face morphs from day to day. Other routes may be taken to enter the forest, but scaling that mountain thrills you. You are an explorer discovering unchartered lands. In the distance the natives chant, their ritualistic stomping thunders beneath your feet. Rather than conquering them, you want to join in their celebration. Peace pipe smoke wafts through the air intermingling with roasting chickens. You cannot distinguish the direction of these smells, further investigation is needed. You must set up camp and scout the area.
--Leaves shriek as your sneakers crunch their frail bodies. Finding the proper materials proves more difficult than expected, but before construction can begin you must find the proper location. Tiny twigs litter your path amongst the leaf corpses, and they too become victims to your steps. Next to a whispering stream three giant elms – maybe they are oaks – stretch high into the clouds. As though they were having a private conversation, the three have created a triangular space. A home base right beside a water supply, nothing could be better, and your wooden guardians have already formed the base of the structure.
--You continue on your trek for building materials. One log appears perfect, about the length needed. As you pull it toward your campsite, a chipmunk scurries away, deeper into the woods, and a pile of insects buzz in a frenzy.
--After discovering the first piece of your wall and securing it between its posts, the others rapidly appear, as if they had been playing a game of hide and seek with you all along. You have built up your walls, but you remain vulnerable, your fortress lacks a roof. Listening to the hushed murmur of the stream, you spy an olive plaid fabric on the opposite shore. Skipping across the rocks, landing safely on the other side, you yank the fabric from beneath the rock. Some leaves and flakes of dirt have clung to the blanket, but nothing that you cannot shake off.
--You have saved a staff, nearly double your height, to pound into the center of your fort. Because its height surpasses yours, you must drape the rescued olive blanket over the tall stick before ramming it into the ground. Once it is raised, the blanket waves in the wind, thanking you for cleaning it and giving it a purpose. You tie the loose ends to the edges of your walls, and enter.

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