Ginkgo Leaves, 12/11/2025

Forget touching grass. Just stand under a tree shedding its leaves. Grass brushes. Leaves slap.

I'm waiting for my ride, the two of us off to enjoy happy hour at a cozy local restaurant. Traffic's held her up though, so I'm standing in a swirl of leaves and sniffling through a nipped nose.

I'm in a rare sociable mood. I, the pathological lurker, have been messaging my two groups on Discord. Some of my messages drift on into the void, while others spark a little chat. Either way, I'm content. I've tried to talk. Engage. That's a lot for me to do.

It's been two days since some gut-wrenching, long-forgotten emotions churned and spit me through a wringer. For four hours, I oscillated between journaling and dribbling snot over myself, as fossilized memories oozed like tar through my cracks. And since I'm writing my book while wrestling this force crushing me inward, I'm a desiccated husk by the end of it. Why now? Why remember? What do I do with these childhood episodes that flit by like the ginkgo leaves bouncing off of me?

I can do nothing in the first moment, because my head's snapping to see the point of impact: a braid, my shoulder, my nose. The brain has a hard time ignoring these palpable glances. It must bring these concerning flashes from the periphery to the forefront. 'What dares threaten my safety?' But I see only a stem or a contour or a spin as the leaf careens past. I'm confused. Maybe a leaf never hit me at all.

Then another leaf smacks me on the forehead. Rabbit reflexes kick in again. Which one of you hit me?

So I slow my memory down. The leaf's already passed, so I won't see it anymore, but the imprints linger. From the imprints, I reconstruct the moment again, and re-cast and re-script the entire scene, because the impact still shakes me, the hurt still radiates, the sound and sensation and bewilderment all fresh experiences again. It's just that, as an adult and writer, I have the words to describe what a littler me couldn't.

What are the shapes imprinted on you?

For me, the shapes are words. Act older than your age. You have no common sense. You’re so unladylike.

Callous remarks made by a natural bully.

You’re burning bridges you’re going to regret later.

I'm supposed to perceive that bully as my father.

And since I'm also not allowed to cry, because crying doesn’t solve anything, I'm supposed to forget that I'm hurt. I also can't write or read fantasy to escape, because that’s not real writing.

I've stopped wondering why I feel like a thorny bramble inside. Branches criss-cross and tighten over me to seal shut wounds I'm told don't exist. So I'm suffocating, suffocating, suffocating in every waking moment. Fighting to breathe becomes too high of a demand.

I think that's why this perspective of the ginkgo trees caught my eye today. I used to be here.

Blue sky peers between the tangled branches as the sun lights the entire tree, but here I lay, stitched into the earth as roots crush my lungs.

As I'm thinking this, a ginkgo leaf lands in my hand. Soft, substantive, weighted, and—unlike that familiar papery crunch of autumn leaves underfoot—so very alive.