No trespassing

What are we protecting?

Between old growth stumps, those grandfathers all hacked and milled in a few short years, this place marked and torn welcomes me gently—but the signage does not. The signs that point towards life (“Awesome Acres,” “Pam’s Farm Stand”) crash up against the bold red lettering everywhere (PRIVATE - KEEP OUT - NO TRESPASSING). Which is it? The grief turns my gut every time I pass a stump, someone’s body more ancient than any strange signs. Who is guarding what now?

I’m looking for a place to put my feet in the water, feel the rocks and the cold like my own great-grandfather wrote about in a letter he never meant for me to find. He wrote it to a cousin, who wanted to be a writer, whose letters were found by another cousin, also a writer, after the first cousin died by his own hand. Silence runs in the family. So does a shake of the leg, a shake that says more in otherwise-still moments than the words we speak ever have.

There are soft, tiny light blue flowers blooming from dark green stalks. There are vines that curl and curl. I look for the public access road, walking a mile or few. My friend has just called—he’s relapsed. A year earlier, he built a fence around himself that broke my heart a little. “I’m a private person,” he said, notifying me I’d moved from the category of kin to one of acquaintance. I cried then, but I didn’t long wonder what I’d done, or try to change his mind, like I used to. Now he’s calling from the county hospital, speaking clearly on his own self-deception.

Carrying his story towards the water, the sun is bending downwards, and I’m running out of time to follow public roads. All I see is a fence marked “PRIVATE - NO TRESPASSING.” The grass behind it grows tall, up to my knees. There’s no one in sight, and I blend in, so I climb over. As my feet land on the grass, my cells rearrange, listening. Today, they are speaking—these walls, these fences, these houses, these “neighborhoods” we’ve built to keep us alone—killed people, killed trees to build—they say, we are only here to screen sickness! To screen shame! We are not protecting what we love. Private kingdoms, condos, countries, they shout—we are addicted.

I peel off my clothes. My feet pass sharp stones carefully and enter the realm of cold salt water. I tremble and cry. There are four dead crabs, and one living one. I feel free and unfree. Forgive me for thinking you were guarding some treasure, like a dragon blending into the city stories and street signs, eyes still glinting in the sun. Forgive me for thinking you were guarding some treasure that I too wanted. I can’t climb every fence, only wait with heart beating, give away what I wanted to keep.