The Fool
Posted on February 1, 2023 by Dori Lumpkin
eight minutes have passed since you stepped outside. the humid, sticky air of the apartment was suffocating you.
three hours have passed since you and your friend - lost now in the crowd of writhing students - were in her own apartment, tossing makeup at each other and squealing.
one week has passed since she came to you, nervously asking you to go to a party with her. she didn’t want to go alone.
you didn’t blame her. parties alone, especially the parties of people you don’t really know, are actually quite terrifying.
four seconds have passed since you realized that your cheap red solo cup was sticking to your fingers, and you abandon it on the concrete beneath your feet. it was just as full as the moment you got it, anyway.
you notice the forest the same moment you abandon your cup.
a cat— possibly a friendly stray— twists itself around your legs, and absently, you pet it, fur sticking to your fingers.
your eyes never leave the forest.
you don’t know how you didn’t notice it before.
was it there before?
it couldn’t have been.
there was a 7/11 or an exxon or a circle k there before.
you remember commenting on the neon to your friend as you walked inside the apartment.
you’re sure.
are you sure?
you think you hear singing coming from somewhere.
not the mindless thumping coming from the apartment behind you.
a deep, all-encompassing hum. it could be coming from the forest. it probably is.
at least twelve years have passed since you last lost yourself in the lush environment that calls to you now, but you remember it like it was yesterday.
vines, pulling at your clothes, convincing you to travel deeper.
the very same humming, low, rumbling, enticing.
everything has a faint glow around it. it could just be the sunset, which tends to make everything at least ethereal, but you aren’t convinced.
your mother, calling you in for supper, responsibility and a life forcing you away from certain magic.
back on the concrete porch, three minutes have passed before you realize that your
feet are carrying
you away, away, away. towards the forest that is reaching for you.
it takes you longer than you think to cross the street, the road is busier than you expected it to be at this time of night. but still, despite the cars, you cross.
the cat follows you.
the forest calls you.
you walk on.
you only hesitate for a brief period of milliseconds before crossing the threshold from society into wilderness. the cat meows, reassuring.
you nod back to it, thanking it for the vote of confidence.
minutes pass as you walk. hours. you’re actually not sure. you don’t really mind. it doesn’t feel like time is passing, and you aren’t getting tired, so you keep walking.
briars and vines and leaves and twigs cling to your clothes as they did when you were a child, though you’re sure this is not the same forest.
you’re sure.
are you sure?
they slow you down, but again, you don’t mind. sometimes you let them stay. brushing them off seems rude.
they’ve found a home on your skin.
eventually your walking slows to a crawl.
eventually the vines wrap around your ankles and grow there. moss begins to fall from your limbs, dressing you in soft green, and you’re not sure where it came from, but you like it.
you think that maybe you’re taller. or maybe the trees are shorter. their branches can reach you now, and you find yourself reaching up to them.
tangling your fingers in the new growth.
wrapping all parts of you around them.
letting them reach down and envelop you.
you hardly make it more than an inch forward each day anymore.
not that you’d know the rate at which days pass.
not that you’d care, either. it isn’t about how fast you’re moving. maybe it was, at one point, but it isn’t now.
the cat is still there. it’s still your friend. it climbs up your body, out onto your branches. it makes you smile. you let it perch.
sometimes it goes away for long periods of time.
somehow you always know that it will come back.
maybe you aren’t moving at all, now.
maybe you haven’t been for a long, long time.
a hundred years have passed before you realize that nobody ever came looking for you.
nobody from the party noticed you had walked outside.
not even your friend… what was her name? you can’t remember her name now.
for some reason, that doesn’t bother you.
people sometimes venture this deep in the forest. they’re always hikers, they’re always looking for something that isn’t you.
you know you’re alone.
but you’re not alone.
you
have
the forest.
a hundred more years pass, almost, before you come to the conclusion that you are
content.
you are happy like this.
this is, honestly, nothing short of exactly what you have always wanted for yourself.
fireflies have become your friends.
moss grows from your skin as opposed to on it.
the low hum never stops, and it vibrates in your chest, soothing anxieties that you no longer have.
soon, you forget ever walking into the forest. there was never a party. or was there?
maybe sometimes you remember a friend you once had. the faint scent of powder makeup tickles your nose.
you remember your cup, abandoned, and absently you hope that someone threw it away for you.
but you can’t be sure that there ever was a cup to throw away.
you honestly can’t be sure that there was ever a party that led you into this forest.
you think, contentedly, that maybe you were always here.
then yes, you think, you were always here.
there was nothing before.
nothing but the forest.
you’re sure.
are you sure?