Free Peanut Butter

Cold May.

Bold mouse. Carefully cleaning every lick of peanut butter bait off a hair trigger trap. All night. No snap. Ashley says at this point I’m just feeding them. We’re all trapped by the same house. If we don’t hold the keys, we can’t call it heaven.

Can’t keep up with grass. Mixed greens waving frilly fists at white supremacy.
Can’t keep up with news. Or weather. Or the neighbors.

These have been the brightest days with a cloud looming over them I have ever known.

This is the fastest my garden has ever grown. Boss said we’re done licking peanut butter off the trap today boys when it snapped. And now we’re stuck. Home. Forever.
And they don’t know how to tell us yet.

If hindsight is twenty-twenty, why do we use any other kind? Whatever sight isn’t hindsight is bullshit, and we’re such convoluted, temperamental emotional cocktails we can’t trust what’s plain and played out in front of our faces. Whatever you are is not actually your brain and your brain unarguably twists details and contorts facts to appease you, like a grandma who gets you a happy meal every day, your brain looks at you wearing a little smirk and presses a finger to her ruby red lips and shushes you and you both know exactly what your brain means. We’re eating things we shouldn’t and not telling mom about it.

Buddha chartered a hindsight cruise line and Jesus ruined an otherwise nice dinner
once with hindsight.

I always get the word prescient wrong.

I don’t know why my gut wants to define it as something immediately pressing, important, mostly because of proximity. That’s not what it means. Through research, I’ve learned that prescient means eating a salad every now and again, doing physical activity on a daily basis even though no one is making you, and it can be loosely defined by the act of becoming or getting to know some food producers near you because grocery stores are still stores and their business model might not include feeding you and your family no matter what happens regarding your income and vocational viability or industry fluctuations or now, very prescient, when society has been enforcibly shut down and your ability to generate income is severely constricted or morally irreconcilable.

I think hindsight employed as regular sight is prescience.

I think in the middle of the night one night I’ll hear that wooden slap. I used pliers and bent the trigger on the trap so that I could barely set it it was so sensitive, and mixed cotton fuzz from a Q-tip in with the peanut butter. Once I snag a couple the rest learn, not much else could bring them back in the house. Cold may. But hindsight isn’t just for humans. Mice have their own definition for prescient.

For them, it’s no such thing as free peanut butter.

I Wander

Hiking changes real estate. I remember house hunting with my family when my siblings and I were kids. No. Under a metal spiral stair case. Trapped between two thick yellow paint strips slicing the road in half. No in the yard. No that doesn’t fit in the yard. In the closet of a bedroom big enough for two, no, no more kids sharing bedrooms. 

I would describe it as exactly the opposite on a hike. I spent innumerable miles studying, imagining, dreaming of how I could make little flat patches on the sides of mountains, bareheaded bald spots on top of them, chilly Laurel stuffed hollows between them, into cozy fireside home for the night. No was in my little book of miles, my stack of shelter names and water sources and spectacles along the way. No was circling bare plastic in water bottles or a food sack stuffed with crushed Ramen wrappers and crinkly, metallic skin still plastered with bits of authentic peanut butter. I swear I could make anywhere home. Is that a superpower? An antithesis to the performing escape artist. My ability, my talent, the special skill I am about to demonstrate, I’m really good at home. 

Which isn’t a tent, a nice high firepit, a picnic table someone slid up underneath the shelter overhang, which is against the rules, and an answer to the prayer of every hiker in the rain passing through. It isn’t safety or security, there is none, save the insomniac canine stretched out on the leaves, ears sharp and crisp and up as early corn. It isn’t the view, though I’ve woken up by some doozies. I’ve slept sideways on slanted ground. Bent my body crooked as a snake in the shade to lie between the rocks. I’ve packed up my entire camp at nine at night because a strange man who had asked for food started staring at my dog, Eggs, like she was finally living up to her goofy namesake, hiked over a mile in the dark, shining no lights so he couldn’t see which direction we went, and set up camp in the pitch black not three feet off trail. Woke up to find out I’d slept beside an overview, woke up to carrot colored sunlight tickling hundreds of miles of central Virginia up out of a tough and too short sleep. I stayed one night down in this sopping wet valley dug by a wide shallow tongue of water called Dismal Creek. I know. I read the sign. The opposite of warm. The closest to freezing I’ve ever come when the temperature wasn’t freezing. It’s not a rule, it’s not even advice, so much as it is an observation, that one should always have trepidation about staying in a place where even the water is running. 

I could make anywhere home. Often, I think of campsites I scratched out myself, circled rocks and crushed my snow angel tent shape flat in the leaves. I wonder if anyone else has stayed there. I wonder if a ranger found it first and scattered the rocks and ruffled up the forest floor to cover the tracks. I wonder if perhaps there’s some territory in the afterlife where one has to go back through the world and revisit every place we ever left DNA. Gather it up like autumn leaves to lay down bedding in the latchless stalls of heaven. I wonder. 

Every night, I’d get my set up established, my shelter that packed down to the size of a loaf of bread, and expanded enough to hold me, my gear, my dog, room to spare. I almost always built a fire. Water boiling. Pour some wine if I had it. Slipping the dog slices of warm cheddar as if I hadn’t asked permission. I’d get out my notebook, wipe the excess ink pooled at the ballpoint of my pen, and wander. Pages. As my dinner grew cold. I’d shove all my dishes and food into a compression sack and send it up a tree on a rope, and I’d climb into my tent with my notebook and my pen, a bright white light emanating from the center of my forehead, and I’d write. 

And that’s my superpower. That’s how I stay anywhere I go. 

I am real estate.
I am home.

Out of the Box

Use caution putting things away, because that is where they stay. For as long as you don’t mind not seeing them. All sorts of things. Spices printed with dates like two thousand and fourteen. Half written journals and perfectly full ink pens and highlighters gone dry left so long in the dark. Dust in caked layers and rust inundating needle nose pliers and hair off so many animals. Life is not a house. Life is not a closet. We built these places, and tuck ourselves in. Tidied up. Straightened out. Organized lives from so many broken pieces of mine. Like puzzles. And you take a puzzle out of the box to put it together. The picture doesn’t fit inside its own container. Though it is much more secure in there.

Steel drains and matted hair. The windows where we sat and stared. The doorways we broke through to get somewhere. Be careful. Confusing life with the packages we put it in. Use caution. Putting anything out of sight, and subsequently, mind. Because it will become something in isolation that it was not before. Love makes a great meal. But it doesn’t store. At least not well. Not in the boxes where we dwell. Where we hide. And like scared children, keep ourselves hidden. Calling it a living room when it is more of a tomb until doors are broken open and windows crack and wind blows curtains back and light sweeps carpet and life steps over thresholds carrying smell and pollen and sound like a smiling bride braced in bent arms.

Get life all cleaned up, and out, and put away, and straightened, and immaculate, and categorized and sanitized and ornately adorned and closed windows and locked doors. So that at our own discretion, we can choose it. Have it eternally, as long as we don’t mess up and use it. Risked. And there is no insurance to safeguard against this. But I can tell you, antiquity, is where things go to die. Be careful putting away anything you love. Because it will stay put up. While you, and so many years, pass by.