Morsels of Home - Part I

  Whispering beetles were a familiar language to me. I used to see a glimmer of their light radiating from a tiny dot out into the wide-open air. I could exist with the trees, mimicking their steady sway as the wind flowed through their leaves like it did through my hair. The trees had all the answers I needed. My favourite were the timid creatures who made a quiet home and rested contentedly in their nests and burrows. Sometimes the curious ones would pad out, hiding meekly in the underbrush as if asking for permission to greet me. They spoke my language too.

Now in the discord of the city, a car pounds past me and engulfs me with its shadow of cold, smoggy air. It’s gone without a second glance. Cars never hesitate. They don’t leave that fuzzy feeling of warm fur in my fingers, only smoke. The birds here are different too. Nothing more than plain, black boxes with one beady hole for an eye. They watch me impatiently while hiding themselves behind flickering red lights.

Most of the bugs dismiss me like a plastic bag wedged in the rocks. They come in swarms too. But these are big, noisy, angry clouds of people. Everyone is on their own way like busy bees, only they don’t stop to smell the flowers. They hide their flowers away from me, I think, and they won’t tell me how to find any for myself. The ones that speak up always sound so rushed and troubled.
“Stay off the road.” “Go play with your friends.” None of my friends are here. They wouldn’t like it here. 

I try to shut out the noise and search for just one piece of home in this jungle. It’s so hard to recognize anything in all the grey, but I see it. There, at the edge of the city square is one small skeleton of a tree. This is a friend. I can be certain because of how it bends to the wind, gently, even in this dizzying labyrinth. I stand beside it and sway.

“Hey kid.” At first, I don’t realize he’s talking to me. “Kid.” His voice sounds like gravel under my toes, so I’m not afraid to turn around.
He’s one of the busy bugs, but something about him draws me closer. It’s his green scarab eyes, earthy skin, and the way he sits on the wooden bench, with legs like roots extending into the ground. I waddle over and place my hand on the pelt of white hair on his arm. In his hands, I can just make out the image in the newspaper. It’s an old Victorian house, distorted like a tree struck by lightning and crumbling at every corner.
“Child Discovered on Abandoned Property,” He reads out. He skims the article and his bushy grey eyebrows rise after each line. Then, he turns to me. “Is this your home?” he asks, pointing at the cracked glass windows.

I shake my head and hold his finger with my tiny hand, guiding it to the imprudently cropped patch of trees in the background.

“The woods?” he asks.

I nod. “And I don’t like it here.”

“I didn’t either at first,” he says, staring up into the blue sky and rubbing the anchor inked on his arm. “Seems like everyone else knows what they’re doing but they never tell you.” He hums, shutting out the buzz, searching for something. His eyes land on the fountain. “But it’s alright. We bring our own secrets with us from home.”

So we sat and swayed along with the rippling water.