Sidewalks strewn with the shiny new lives of acorns. Students and faculty and administrators and
staff, dogs and deer and rabbits and squirrels wade through the fall tide. We smash or kick or chew or gather; the worst
of us pass by without noticing more than an uneven surface that forces a more
mindful step. Little time-machines,
sweet reassurance against starvation in the hardest of times, I
can’t stop myself. My body kneels of
its own accord in the damp grass outside the red brick university buildings, kneels
at the feet of oaks, and my hand – my wide palm with its short brown
fingers – reaches out, scoops up as many as it can hold. I sink them deep into my pocket, already a
little embarrassed. I can’t pass them by.
Can’t bear this waste. I’m glad
they feed the deer, the rabbits, the squirrels.
But I think of the people whose land this is, the awful discovery of
gathering, cracking, leaching, washing, cooking. Starvation food. I think of my own relatives, raised on another
ocean, but coming back to these small dense hearts every Fall because once,
they saved us. Once our bones were built
with the rich proteins and hardy fat of this harvest. That must be why my body opens up every
morning as I walk under these branches heavy with knowledge snug in hard
shells. The must be why my body opens up
like a hand, like the hands of a nation, traveling through time and rock and
prairie and mountain to remind me, remind me: find a way.
- Deborah A. Miranda
--> -->
