Buried in a pit of snow was the place to begin, so it began. The weight pressed downward on the body, as the body yielded to the mind. The mind pressed itself against the narrative of it all: the hiking on the mountain, the falling, the cold white, the great shape of whatever that compromised before and after. But there was too little to divide beginning from ending, and just as it had emerged it again submerged. Doing yielded to undoing, as each and every action to create was rendered in reverse. Thousands of flakes of snow gathered into a single pile just to be blown away by the wind. Then I was simply gone
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The porch was not too slippery. A rusty aluminum canopy stretched over it, one of many that jutted out from the trailers on our block. Large enough to keep you dry in a downpour, but small enough that all the rainwater would pool on the stairs and freeze overnight. When you stepped down onto them that morning, your little legs instantly rejected the hold. You were too short to grab the rail. You slipped. There’s nothing that can stop a father from his child. No distance or time. Obviously I caught you. You hadn’t fallen more than a few inches. I was there. Daddy was there
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When a great motion occurs we witness elsewhere. It is something forwards and upwards. When you feel yourself crossing it, you realize how inevitable it is. You try to describe that which exists beyond the brink, and witness only the shapes that your language makes as it fails to touch. It is the wave without form. It is the coming into a home on a cold day, the warmth in your face. But minus the heat. Minus the face
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I met Frank on the Oregon Coast. It’s a sadder one compared to California. No sun, just fish. He was standing on the boardwalk holding a paper tray of french fries and looking gloomy. I’m not usually the type to initiate those kinds of conversations; I didn’t even know if he was gay. But I knew, even if for just a moment, that I wanted him to look at me and smile. I first told him that if he wasn’t careful with those fries, he was going to be jumped by one of the roving gangs of seagulls in the area. He asked me if they were pretty hardcore. I told him they had custom leather jackets and switchblades with their names on it. He laughed and offered me
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Dust. Simultaneously breaking down and accumulating. I follow the life of a single mote and suddenly
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I am the emptiness, watching it settle around
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Me? How much would I need to turn into something more than a thin film against the surface of something upturned? If I am composed mainly of skin, could I ever recreate form, or coalesce? Why is dust associated with emptiness? This is not an empty room, I am here. Another mote settles. Where am I?
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Tree Wells, otherwise known as Spruce Traps: snowfall is dampened by the branches of an evergreen and forms underneath the tree a lightly packed snow, flanked by deep, dense ice. Inexperienced hikers use the tree as a resting spot, but the inner ring is subject to collapse and creates a funnel deeper, downwards, underneath. Muffled by the snow, the hiker attempts to dig themselves out or call for help. Snow yields to snow yields to snow yields to snow yields to
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Know that it’s more important to me than it is to you, but you’re my fucking husband. Why can’t you compromise? I’m just asking for a week, and we’re not going anywhere dangerous. We’ll stick to the main roads and wander around for a little bit, just you and me. Doesn’t that sound nice? How long has it been since we’ve been able to enjoy something just the two of us?
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Does a shadow have weight? Or a release of weight? What about time? How can we measure a shape as its shadow creeps across the concrete floor? Or the time it takes for the light of the small, basement window to undo that which has been done? I keep looking for proof that I’m here. Where have I gone when even my light can’t find me? Oh, to be smeared into shape, to have it cut through me
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Does a shadow have weight, you asked. I said to ask your father. He said to ask your dad. You groaned and told us you didn’t have time for this. That essay was too important. But still we witnessed your smile, betraying all you wished to shield yourself with. I remember that smile, scrunching your freckled cheeks upwards. You and he are the same, wearing your feelings so plainly on your face. How did you learn so quickly what I never could? He and
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I now know that the distance between the slam of the door against the frame and the echo back is long enough for me to slip between and call out to
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You would never go into the basement alone. I know you thought it was haunted. The only way I could get you down there was to stand in the basement and call out to you. I’m down here, Marcy. It’s okay. I’m here
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I always knew who would propose first. I wanted to do something elaborate, but your father needed something gentler. So I waited for him to feel like enough had settled between us for him to ask. I shouldn’t have even been surprised that it was Crater Lake. The water was freezing that day, and I can see myself sitting next to him, his body ice cold against mine, our leg hair still matted down from the water and entangled as we lean against each other. He turns and asks it, as simple as if he wants me to pass him a blanket. I answer yes as easily as if I am reaching for the fabric and handing
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It is like silence prior to sound. I can feel the ribbons of flesh coming together in the throat far before something is uttered:
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“Once upon a time, there was a snowy land, far far away from everything. In a castle lived a beautiful princess named Marcy, with the two most handsome and amazing fathers in the whole wide world. Shhh, let me finish. One day
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I asked: Where am I?
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You came screaming out of your bedroom as if you’d been shot. We were there, fawning. The blood. The fear. The brief distance between seeing you crying, hurt, bleeding, and realizing it was just a baby tooth; knocked out was a chasm. Crossing it took an eternity and in an instant we knew
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Blood and fear share something. It is leaving your home on a cold day, the warmth draining from your face. Digging into the cold. The cold. It is so cold
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So much talk of marriage. We were supposed to be better than that, weren’t we? Doing yielded to undoing, as each and every action to create was rendered in reverse. Thousands of days gather into a pile just to be blown away by the wind. Then it was simply gone
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On our first date, Frank took me to a massive bookstore in Portland. We interviewed each other in the adjacent cafe. I asked him about the first time he’d fallen in love and he asked me about my opinion on oral sex. We picked out books we felt the other would like. I bought him a children’s book. He bought me Slaughterhouse Five
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I wait on the edge of the room, wanting to come in but not able to. You have to invite me in to see me. I get these feelings that come over me, sometimes. These great heavy waves of sadness and anger flatten me against the upturned surfaces of the room. Please, if you would conjure me I could be happy again. Please tell me
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All of it was important to me, baby. Every party, every graduation. Every time they marched you up on stage after kindergarten, first grade, fifth grade, high school. I was there, just to see that look on your face
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Where am I? Where am I? Where am I?
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Why does the basement scare you? There’s nothing down here but the empty
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Part of what drew me to your father was his intentionality in everything. He kissed like he was solving a problem. The sex was good. But I was beyond sex at that point. I saw in him the ghost of a family that was yet to be created. By choosing him, I thought I could conjure it into being. Why did you buy me the children’s book, he asked. So you can look at the pictures, I said. He looked. I watched
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You, staring into the crowd, asking: Where are they?
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Nearly a thousand hikers go missing from National Parks each year in the U.S. Most families receive no information about their whereabouts and simply hope for the best
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How can we see it with no eyes? How do we feel it without a body? We know it’s coming. When a great motion occurs we witness elsewhere
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It’s not haunted. It’s just cold, dusty air
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I witness leaving. We still love you
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We were late to his parent’s place. I wanted to run to make it, but Frank wouldn’t budge. He held me in place and walked slowly with me arm in arm. His mom would care. He didn’t. When we reached the house the door opened and we entered the glowing yellow. It is the coming into a home on a cold day, the warmth in your face
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“Marcy. Can you hear me? Baby. Can you hear me? Marcy? Marcy? Where am I, Marcy. Please, help me Marcy. Marcy
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You could have anything if you wanted it, I told you. Yeah, you said. But you wanted to take a break, travel around a bit. I understood the desire to explore. It was hard for your father to feel the distance between us. So you had your adventure, and the time between visits grew to
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Within 10 minutes of direct exposure to snow, hypothermia begins to set in. Within an hour the heart and brain will cease to function
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A moment of lucidity in it all is nothing. It’s all to find you, and while it’s here it’s also not. It’s gone, now. Sucked under, downer, deeper into the cold white underneath. It’s pressing into mind, into body. I feel it, oh god, I feel it. It’s the cold, colder than cold. Empty cold. It begins, the endless emptiness, oh god, Marcy I’m so cold. Marcy, my baby, can you hear me? Please, can anyone hear me? I don’t know where I am, somebody please help me. Please help me, please, I just don’t want to die. I just want to go back, please, help me go back. Someone please help me get back, let me back inside of it, let me inside let me please, I just, the warmth. The face. I it’s the oh god. It’s. The heat. I witness leaving. It is something forwards. It’s the upwards, It is
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Nothing can stop a father from his child
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No distance or time
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We didn’t take the trip together. Fuck, we talked about it for years. I wanted to see the parks in the winter. He didn’t have the time to take off work. Your father is not a bad man. Nor is he a bad husband. You just begin to realize that intentionality yields to control. When you left, he lost his control. He wouldn’t step further away from it, like any distance might make the difference
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When the release happens, you must be ready for it. You cannot remain while departing. Any hesitation, even a moment, creates a shattering. You will shoot across every second of it, forward and back, until the body yields to mind, and the mind, once pressed against the narrative, will begin to leave. You will feel the lengthening within until it bounds back and snaps, either here or there, it will
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Drive you to the airport and kiss your face through the tears. Watch you climb the steps to the airplane, but they are still slick from the rain. For a moment your foot rejects the hold, and down your body goes. For a moment my body jolts towards yours, as if I could cross the distance in time to grab you. You are now tall enough to reach the handrail. You catch yourself and keep climbing
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Snow. Simultaneously breaking down and accumulating. I follow the life of a single flake and suddenly I am fullness, watching it settle around me. How much would it need to turn into something more than a thin bank against the surface of something upturned? If it is composed mainly of water, could it ever recreate form, or coalesce? I am here.
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I am leaving the basement, baby. There’s nothing here
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I am coming back into a home on a cold day, the warmth in my face
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I am reminded of Vonnegut. Listen: Dad has come unstuck in time
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Minus the heat. Minus the face
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That’s not quite right. I am not weaving in and out of the fabric of time
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Nothing will keep a father from his child
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I have left the blanket entirely
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,
,
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Jordan Marzka is a writer, actor, and educator whose writing has appeared in Pathos, Oregon Humanities’ Beyond the Margins, and Wordlights. He received his BFA from Portland State University and was a finalist for the 2023 Brink Emerging Writer Fellowship in Hybrid Writing. He is the founder and co-host of Portland Lit Mic, and currently lives and writes under the supervision of his boyfriend’s cat, Ziggy.