First—and this is very important—you must become comfortable in a hood. Don’t put on a hood as if it’s meant to keep you warm; don a hood so a dark window will show where others expect your face. Love your hood. Find the places your eyes go when your visage is swallowed in fabric, when no one notices you. Smell the felted lining, relax in the humid air of enclosure. Get comfortable living unseen. Real cozy. . . .
Second, you must love the woods. What is it about them that would draw you? Is it the scent of the gilly mushrooms sprouting in rows along the mossy oak? Is it the moist touch of the peat on the forest floor? Is it the sun flashing you as you sprint through the shadowy bars of the trees? Is it the tingle of fear—knowing all the hiding places in the branches, in the hollows, in the dank holes in the ground—imagining all the creatures who lurk there? A fox darting out to nip your heels with its pointed breath, a snake sluicing up your calf. Or is it the urge to sneak off yourself—cramped inside an empty log, your back nuzzled against the bark, only your breath to occupy your thoughts, as if your presence were a myth? Whatever you find to love about the woods, love them. They beckon to you.
Third, you need to be a very good, very respectable granddaughter. Whether you feel like one or not is irrelevant. You don’t have to memorize your granny’s face—the way it wrinkles around her nose and the deep sags under her cracked blue eyes. You don’t have to listen and truly know her voice—any voice of a granny, whatever you expect that to be, will do. Parched, feminine. Whatever the voice, you must come to it, you must bring her bread, must perform the motions. Hand-bake your dough, waiting for it to rise, punching at its liquid lump under a towel with deep affection. Or buy it if you have no time or can’t muster the desire, but it must appear homemade. Tuck it into the sweetest basket, one lined with red and white checked cloth and topped with a wicker lid. Appearances communicate care, and care is your sworn duty. Don’t let anyone see you ignoring it.
Then—fifth, is it?—you must trust a man. If you were to stumble upon one in the woods, while you are alone and vulnerable, and say he’s wielding a large rifle with a wooden stock, wears the musk of days-old sweat and dried blood of deer embedded into his flannel, and he’s shouting in anger and spitting through his dark muzzle hairs and stomping his masculine threats, the proper response is not to cower. Or if you do cower, do so respectfully, perhaps with a bow. Do not shriek or grasp the yeast rolls from your basket and lob them at him with all your tiny force. Do not run. You might slip and flounder in the mud or trip over a log and mar your tender face, and he will have to pursue you with annoyance. No, remember that men are here to save you. If they scare you, be thankful because that means they will also scare the forest creatures, which are the true threat. Men are one of you, your own tribe. Remember your species. You never know when you will need one.
Next, be prepared for that for which you are unprepared. For the moment the wind shifts, the plot changes, the second your sacred duty ensnares you—which, you must note, is no fault of your own. You are doing as you should. You are following instructions, heeding the path, padding with little feet in tender toe-steps; unjustly, the snap of sin like rusty iron on your ankle tendon jolts you and mangles your flesh. It isn’t your fault. But you still must be prepared to rectify it, so don’t whimper when you step into the creaking floor of the cabin to deliver your bread and a sound like a snarl greets you, or when you sniff the smell of fleas instead of vanilla candles in the air. Granny is only snoring. She hasn’t lit the wicks today because she is napping, that’s all. Take cautious steps if you must. But proceed. Any wrong can be forgiven if you are sweet enough.
Once you’re through the threshold, inside the house, it’s okay to ask questions. In the woods, no one hears you. Your sound escapes like wind through the open trees. But here, the walls accept your voice and hold its reverberations in their papered hands. This is your sphere. Assure yourself you’ll be answered honestly, that Granny loves you and wouldn’t dare lie. Steel yourself with resolve in your pointed boots and squeeze the voice from your throat. Fear, over-instruction, confusion, hesitation: these are fables. Nothing can be so scary that you can’t speak up. You will ask the right questions, without further instruction. They will be enough. Your instincts will be enough. You won’t be swallowed whole—legs wiggling upright, as your head enters the throat, one smooth gulp.
Loria Harris’s works of poetry and fiction are published in Oyster River Pages, Winged Penny Review, Reverie Literary Magazine, Club Plum, JAKE, and others. Her poems have received the Alyson Dickerman Poetry Prize and the Jim Haba Poetry Award. Loria received her MFA at Lindenwood University, where her fiction is nominated for the MFA in Writing Award. She currently works as an adjunct instructor and reads for Iron Horse Literary Review. Find her on IG @looksbooksandloria or on Bluesky @loriaharris.
The Orange Rose 