Common House Magazine

So, once I had told each one of my most profound anxieties to the animals in the park, they said to me: “Choke up your feet and run as far as you can, run like flame through dry grass, run like the beast’s teeth are at your back, run like blood through fur. Steel yourself in the dark and content yourself knowing some of your children will die. Eat food where you can get it. Avoid machines. When the days grow shorter, bury yourself underground and do not come back out until the rain pounds the earth like a herd in flight and you know that the sun is back out. Better yet, run to the rocks and tear open your chest to see what’s inside, not to touch the heart but to watch what it is for your own heart to beat, what it is for your flesh to become meat. Until you’ve done this, you will never know what it is to be afraid of the world around you.” Then, they went about their business. Birds chirped. Bunnies hopped. Dogs barked. One brown squirrel stayed behind, perched itself on my shoulder, and said, “You know, if that doesn’t work, you can always talk to your doctor about anxiety medication.” I told the squirrel I didn’t have a doctor or health insurance. He looked at me for a moment, chewed the moss from between his toes, ran clear across the park, and buried an acorn under the root of a particularly beautiful tree.