I think of love as the way one unspools a ball of yarn
or diligently untangles a knot before threading the needle
and sewing anew. I think of love as the pocket on the
inside of one’s winter coat; hidden from view but blooming
with secrets. I think of the nickel you hadn’t known was
there, that you unearthed because you sensed that there was
more to the coat than its water-resistant nylon. I think of
floating, but so does everyone, not the dread palpitating in
your chest cavity when you feel that you have something
to lose. When you realize not everyone will know to conduct
a deep search in your coat pocket to expose the nickel.
That not everyone will see the beauty in 5 cents or know
what to buy with it. Not everyone will know to love and
cherish it like it were a 50-dollar bill and not a discolored,
blemished coin worth little more than a newspaper in 1910.
Some eyes find only what is tangible; the dizzy, ditsy
and beautiful. Some hearts batter your swollen one like
it is a slab of venison in a meat grinder, leaving you touched
but untethered. Tactile but not quite relevant. That is,
relevant among the thistles and the thorns but not the roses
making a home from nothing. You, allocated among mouths
drooling over raw meat, not the few careful hands winding the
ball of yarn back up and setting it on a shelf for safekeeping.
Malena Mayell is a student at Corbett High School. She has been writing stories ever since she learned how to read and otherwise loses track of time burying herself in words, turning up the volume on her favorite songs, and drawing until her fingers cramp. She has previously been published in the Weight Journal and Cathartic Lit.