golden Callie Wohlgemuth

golden

Photo by Callie Wohlgemuth Model: Lucy James-Olson

rooted in my hands

Wolfe Shen

bittersweet

I am becoming intimately acquainted with the powdery smell of bittersweet vines unwound, delicately, from evergreen branches and of rain-dampened cedar mulch heaped on concrete. Of ferns broken at the root, mossy and damp. With a dandelion digger pressed into the palm of my work glove. Some weeds are more fun to remove than others. The grasses are boring, with frustrating underground networks. Dandelions, not exciting- but at least they have a substantial root for me to pull. The triumphant symbol of a job well done. Then my favorites. Tall stalks, oblong leaves. Long roots, but shallow. One after another, then five strung together underground like a zipper.

My mother taught me to garden. Summers as a child, most of our vegetables came from the backyard. Cherry tomatoes, red and warm. Zucchini picked with long sleeves on to avoid the scratchy stems. Lettuce. Cucumbers. But as the cucumbers grew taller and I grew with them my roots shriveled in sandy soil, until I carried myself up the rickety stairs on the side of the house in a bucket of stalks uprooted.

Sam Sanders speaks in my earbuds about prayer and about faith and a spider runs across my gloved hand because I have razed the forest around her and demolished her home. A bird leaves the birdbath and we are back to the tedious grasses. As I sift my fingers through the soil to collect any stubborn stems, I am untethered. I ignore a text message from my mother and move on to the dandelions.

I would like to plant myself, again. Gently gather my roots into a ball pulled from the compost bin and pat the soil down around my torso. Spread fertilizer. Water. But all I seem to do right now is unwind bittersweet vines and dig up dandelions. Avery Martin

jul 24 - billboards (left) jul 24 - puddle (right)

Clara Callahan

reflections

Edited by Callie Wohlgemuth Photos by Zoe Fieldman