By HANNAH KWON
From above the bridge, you see half-frozen streams and hear the rush of water pulsating beneath layers of ice. And as if in immediate response, your body hums alive, blood rushing to your numb fingertips, the static-like buzz a reminder of how fragile the flesh you blanket over the thing that lurks inside of you actually is. Your foot hits the ground with a soft thud, and suddenly, you are no longer you – no, you are more yourself than you have ever been; you feel the grit of the frosted soil wedge itself between the grooves of your thin-soled shoes and find that nothing else matters besides the pressure of pebbles screaming their existence against your toes. You keep moving, though the wind thrashes against your body like an angry apparition, your skin stretching tight against your skull like overextended saran wrap, your fingers red and chapped, your bones heavy. But somehow, you are shrouded with a lightness you have never felt before; you float like dust, and let the wind carry you until you find yourself resting against a stone, staring into the rigid trunk of an ash tree. You glide your hands against the rough etchings of the bark, you trace the markings of the wood over and over again, until you realize it was never a tree you were caressing, but the wrinkled skin of your grandmother’s face. You turn your head and see that you are no longer among trees with dancing limbs, but that you are in a sea of faces, faces you thought you would never see again. And you are home – home, home, home. So you bury your roots and stay.
Writer | Hannah Kwon ‘27 | hwkwon27@amherst.edu
Editor | Sarria Joe ‘27 | sjoe27@amherst.edu
Artist | Kyla Biscocho ‘25 | kbiscocho25@amherst.edu