The smell is not that of the city, smoky, rotten, invasive, but it is rather one of a haplessly crafted forest. It is a place that has significance because it never quite became the city. It is sacred for this reason, not made to harbor human comfort, but to collect and support life. I see one side of the circle of life towering above me, blocking the sun; the other side I feel beneath my feet, blocking the path from securing my footfalls. Everything is green and covered in life or fresh death that will keep the circle orbiting.
Moss grows thick with every shade of green, sprouting from the bark of a mighty tree. Its many fingers capture reflective spheres of newly fallen rain, of the roaring river’s mist, and of my hot breath as I lean close to examine the small world. I smell the cedar, the natural mulch that catapults my memory back to helping my mother plant her pregrown flowers in our garden, next to a concrete driveway and an exhaust-spewing vehicle.
I return hastily to the present: my body and soul take in the fresh air again, the smell of the wood and the moss rejoins my blood, the detailed scene that I have from an eye pressed to the miniature moss world seems real enough to be a part of me, vivid enough to wallpaper my eyelids whenever I close them… and there I go again, relating this unique world to my own, to that of my viral species.
I would stare at this tree, at this separate world forever, if only it was possible to live off of healthy thoughts. If they are so healthy, why can’t they be sustaining?? With so much life all around me, it seems unfair that I would be left out of the growing. I watch a drop of water explore a downward path on my hand still resting upon the soft green moss blanket, I feel the cold stream of it as it disappears under my sleeve and I realize how easy it can be to forget that there are terrible things in this world. The drop’s communicative tingle started a smile behind closed eyes that now open, searching for a refreshing picture of serenity to reassure a burdened mind. It will soon have to return to inevitable concrete life. For now, let it coexist, let it perceive natural beauty that is unaware of itself; it would be a travesty for it to go unappreciated. This, then, will be my role. For the forest I will perceive the glory of life and in doing so, I will be as active in its existence as the symbiotic moss climbing its parent tree to be closer to the sunlight.
My eyes close again, satisfied with my new role, even accepting of a return to concrete; because the more time I spend in city traffic or walking cracked sidewalks or breathing exhaust, the more I will appreciate what first defined the color green. The memory is real enough to persist, even if I never return to this place again.
