To: The Field (or just Field)
From: Non Secretive Admirer
I saw you sometimes, like the way you see a familiar stranger on the bus, you don’t know all of them, but there is a general recognition between the both of you. Then, suddenly, the occasional sight and once-over became a full-blown commitment. We weren’t strangers anymore, but best friends under the sleepover covers telling all our secrets to each other.
You are a lot of heavy winds on quiet days. All up and in my face completely unforgiving but you always smell like grass and clovers and dirt so I like you and I forgive you for those things. You are large and green with riveting sound so that everything else is strangled out. White daisies and a short hair-cut. Personally, I think you’d look better covered in flowers with your grass grown out it reaches the knees of us and me.
I remember walking around your track completely alone. I was suddenly this little person independent and separate from the rest of the chaos and I could feel like I wasn’t attached to anything. No strings or dialogue or people or friends or parents juts a lot of wind noise cleaning out my ears. I’m sure you’ve received many thank-you’s and goodbye’s or maybe you haven’t and I’m the first. Tell me, what does it feel like to be spoken to? I use you as a platform to see the views. All those rooftops on the horizon if you look up from the pit this building is built on. All those intricate shapes and squares forming the outlines of chimneys and window panes. I imagine the lives of the people behind the walls and through the glass. You should see it sometime. Maybe you have, if your eyes face up or down I don’t know. If you are blind, let the daises be your eyes, you are under a very flat, soul-sucking sky. You let me look at it. You expose me.
Julieta Roll was born and raised in San Francisco. Her education includes the Ruth Asawa San Francisco School of the Arts for Creative Writing. She loves her cat. twitter: @JuliFuentesRoll
CoCo Harris is constantly exploring the notion of how we tell the stories of our lives. Her story began in Atlanta, GA and has traversed the Washington, DC metro area; Nigeria, West Africa; Seattle, WA; Louisville, KY; Coastal Georgia, Hawai’I, Central PA’s Susquehanna Valley, and Greenville, SC. She is the Founding Editor of Telling Our Stories Press—an imprint showcasing the art of short memoirs and personal narratives. CoCo’s short memoir, diary entries and photography appear inBlood Lotus, Kindred, Sun Star Review, Gravel and The Raven’s Perch and the Colors of Humanity Art Gallery SKIES juried exhibit. To learn more, visit CoCoHarris.net