The Field Caylin Capra-Thomas
I have lost faith. Many of us stand in the field, waiting to be acknowledged. One of us waves, and everyone waves back, and then nobody waves again for a long time. Passersby take us for a memorial service. We wave at them, too, trying to get their attention. When one waves back, we take to shouting things we think and feel and remember, which they seem to find off-putting. They hurry away with their heads down, and we fall silent again. Except we're not totally silent: some of us continue to whisper the things we're thinking and remembering and feeling. I woke up, it was cold, she didn't love me anymore. We are all of us in the field like dogs dreaming, eyes closed, breathing heavy, chasing something we'll never catch. The field contains everything we want but cannot have, including each other. Including ourselves. Our legs twitch, and we whimper.
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