Rust coats the old chain link fence, glowing bloody in the afternoon sunlight. It sticks in the hinges of the gate, producing a highly melodic scream as I try to pull it open. There are signs plastered everywhere along the edges of the property and more still littering the ground, blown down by time and lying half-covered in the dirt. Some are classic, like “Keep Out”, “Do Not Enter”, “Danger”, and other vague warnings. The empty spaces are filled with the more unhinged kind, the type of caution signs listed in online forums for outspoken members of the NRA. I know these are false because the lot has been deserted for years. The person who felt the need to cover this fence with dire threats left before my family came to town. Since there’s no chance of being shot, mauled by dogs, or otherwise forcibly removed from the premises, I feel safe enough to hop the fence, bypassing the uncooperative gate entirely. Ahead of me, tall fields of grass and wildflowers ripple in the wind like the surface of the sea, whispering gently. It’s almost enough to alleviate my homesickness, though it’s a different kind of beauty than I’m used to. At least no one will follow me here. The aunts, uncles, grandparents, and billions of cousins who have invaded my house to ask me awkward, repetitive questions about my future are all too old to hop fences.
As I bend down to tuck my jeans into my high tops, hoping to avoid the ticks that I know this place is crawling with, I notice a mat of tiny purple wildflowers erupting from the dry dirt. It’s miraculous how quickly plants have reclaimed this place. Five years ago, before the owner with the caution signs, these fields were a desert. Years of the same crop sucked the life from the soil until the farmer who lived here declared bankruptcy and left, calling the area cursed. He may have been right, though not in the way he meant. Apparently, the man who bought it after him became paranoid and left with alarming speed, but wouldn’t tell anyone why. If he really was driven mad by a curse, it would certainly explain this sign.
In the middle of the overgrown path I’m following, a post has been driven into the dirt, with a board nailed to the top. The hand painted message reads, “Please, Do Not Feed The Flowers.” I assume it was intended as an order, something along the lines of, “Please Do Not Smoke,” but the comma transforms it into a plea. A shiver takes hold of me despite the sun, causing my whole body to convulse. Suddenly, the isolation of this place is no longer welcoming. The final caution sign seems to stare at me accusingly, and I realize that the field has gone completely quiet. I am intruding. The thought comes to me with total clarity, pulled together from fences, signs, years of humanity degrading this place, and the total stillness of a conversation interrupted. In the silence I hear a rustle, like a million stems slowly turning.
I run, vaulting the fence and not daring to slow down until the soles of my sneakers are back on concrete. I am careful not to tread on the dandelions growing through the cracks.
As I bend down to tuck my jeans into my high tops, hoping to avoid the ticks that I know this place is crawling with, I notice a mat of tiny purple wildflowers erupting from the dry dirt. It’s miraculous how quickly plants have reclaimed this place. Five years ago, before the owner with the caution signs, these fields were a desert. Years of the same crop sucked the life from the soil until the farmer who lived here declared bankruptcy and left, calling the area cursed. He may have been right, though not in the way he meant. Apparently, the man who bought it after him became paranoid and left with alarming speed, but wouldn’t tell anyone why. If he really was driven mad by a curse, it would certainly explain this sign.
In the middle of the overgrown path I’m following, a post has been driven into the dirt, with a board nailed to the top. The hand painted message reads, “Please, Do Not Feed The Flowers.” I assume it was intended as an order, something along the lines of, “Please Do Not Smoke,” but the comma transforms it into a plea. A shiver takes hold of me despite the sun, causing my whole body to convulse. Suddenly, the isolation of this place is no longer welcoming. The final caution sign seems to stare at me accusingly, and I realize that the field has gone completely quiet. I am intruding. The thought comes to me with total clarity, pulled together from fences, signs, years of humanity degrading this place, and the total stillness of a conversation interrupted. In the silence I hear a rustle, like a million stems slowly turning.
I run, vaulting the fence and not daring to slow down until the soles of my sneakers are back on concrete. I am careful not to tread on the dandelions growing through the cracks.