At the Border

When Jenna arrived at the border, she was surprised to find a guard at the gate.  His jaw was square and his lips were pinched into a straight line, as if he’d spent a lifetime clenching his teeth.  “Who did you used to be?” she asked him.

He didn’t smile but his face visibly relaxed at the question.  “A master carpenter,” he said in a soft voice.  “A guitarist, a long distance runner, a river rafting guide—oh, so many things.”  He looked into her eyes.  “Once, years ago, I sunk my roots into the bark of a kapok tree and I grew into a strong plant with waxy green leaves and orchid blossoms sprouting from my arms and chest.  I was happy there, in the tropics, in one isolated spot, for decades.”

He paused and she nodded.  “And you?” he asked.

“I don’t remember,” she confessed, “but I have a sense that I’ve spent many years shepherding alpacas and sheep, shearing their wool in the summer and weaving it into blankets.  I wake some mornings, my hands warm with lanolin, and I feel optimistic.”

“What brings you here?” he asked.

“Two weeks ago in another country, I was eating cactus pudding for breakfast.  Suddenly my mouth was filled with thorns and a sense of urgency flooded the left side of my body.  I got up from the table, feeling unbalanced, tired of this trial and error world.  I knew I had to move.” 

She stared at him, but he averted his eyes.  “Go home,” he said.  “The feeling will pass.”

She reached for his hand and squeezed it.  “I have the key,” she whispered.  “To the gate.”

He looked up, his eyes wild, but she could not tell if his expression was one of fear or joy.  “Come with me,” she invited.

His face reverted to the facade of neutrality he had worn at the beginning of their exchange.  He kept his chin lowered, but he looked deliberately above her shoulder, to the left, to the right.  “Don’t turn,” he whispered, through barely parted lips.  “Look above you.  Discreetly.”

She did as he directed, keeping her head as still as possible.  There were snipers on the roof tops, soldiers at the windows.  She took a deep breath.  “Trust me,” she told him.

“I want to,” he said.

She grasped his hand again and led him to the a gate.  He seemed to be cowering.  “Breathe deep,” she said.  “Stand tall.”

They stood at the gate, hands joined, breathing together, growing inches taller, thinner, watery like luminescent paint.  She could hear the clicking of gun triggers, knew they were aiming at her, yet she drew the key from her pocket.  She reached forward quickly and inserted it into the lock.  At that moment their bodies melted into fresh clean water and they flowed under the gate.  Bullets flew from east and west, but they could not touch them.  Jenna and the guard rolled down the pavement, into the meadow, and soaked into the roots of a hundred thousand wild flowers.

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash