The Bear — a short story
I went to the cabin in the woods to be alone. It seemed fitting to sit and stare at what had been left untouched, and I wanted silence. The cabin was dark. It had a cot perched in a makeshift kind of loft, so when I looked outside, I could imagine I was part of the endless expanse of night. A large bear-foot tub sat in front of a big picture window. There were mats on the floor and a wood burning fireplace with an ax. I didn’t pack my phone. Not my computer either. I just wanted the earth to hold me on its tongue, cradled in the cave of its mouth. Warm, safe, and sacred as a mother’s breath.
Walking outside, I hung a hammock between two Pine trees and took out my paper and pencils to sketch. I held the tip of the charcoal to the page for ages, feeling my heart race and beat against my chest — like it wanted to say something but nothing was quite right. So, I cocooned myself in the hammock, wishing to be reborn, until the air felt heavy and I could hear anger building down a hallway and footsteps, each a heavy sigh. And I sat up, pacing the landscape to see something that could bring me back to beautiful. Back to before.
Following a narrow path, I came to a small river. An altogether lovely space with a happy waterfall that I dared to stand under. The water, though shockingly cold, was a baptism. I let it run over me, feeling it between the channel of my breasts, traveling in…