Writer: Maya McBride
Little one,
The snow has thawed, revealing tufts of moss. Gone are the days of eating bark; Iris and Forsythias greet you. Though you’re only a month old, and will be living off milk for a while, the dandelions invite you to graze. You are asleep. I’ve been thinking about your name. I want it to be special; I want it to hold weight. You are my first calf.
I was born tickled by juniper, which my mother found symbolic enough to name me as. Brother was born after me and named Aspen. We were raised on the edge of a meadow, close to human habitats. While Mother slept, Aspen and I would walk the solid gray path to what we considered to be Eden. The grass was lush, the birds had manmade homes. We played chase and snacked on flowers that grew in uniform rows — unique from the wild ones we knew. Everything was enchanting.
I remember Mother’s low, threatening call one summer’s morning as Aspen and I jumped through lawn sprinklers. She reprimanded us for being so foolish, for ignoring our wild intuitions. Aspen, always a little nervous and craving approval, refused to come back with me each time I suggested we go. I don’t think he has been near humans since. Mother was always upset with me — I think because she loved Aspen, as the male, more, but mainly for my lack of trepidation — which at the time, I didn’t understand. Now, with your soft breath cooling my side, I feel the same uneasiness.
Last night, a human approached us. I don’t think she knew we were lying in the canopy of pine. My muscles felt heavy, tensed into a stillness I had never felt before. I was going to do what my body taught me to do in danger: charge. But something stopped me. The human smelled of a scent so oddly familiar; that of milk and sleep. It wasn’t until I stood that I saw a calf of her
own — small and pink — clutching to her leg’s blue hide. I heard her heart quicken to the pace of a hare’s. I looked at the human calf and then down to you. I let my breath fossilize into the air between us as she slowly picked up her child and left.
I tell you this not to make you afraid, but because you must understand my choice to stay and raise you here. I wonder if I made the right choice, to keep you in a place so full of mankind. Will you understand the dangers? Will your future mate scoff at your worldliness? I hope you know that I chose this place, our own Eden, for your little body to flourish. You will be on your own in a year, but for now, you will live among abundance. Despite the risks, I want you to thrive.
The sun is embracing the land as you wake, spurring the intoxicating smell of hot, thick ferns. I think I will name you so. Fern.
