There was a time when I knew everything.
I knew the migration patterns of sperm whales, why we carve into the skin of beech trees, and how to write sentences that crescendo. I knew I loved Spring. I knew when the cherry blossoms stuck to the sidewalks and the dirt of my mom’s herb garden stunk of mildew, carts of Italian ice would come to the street corners and days would stretch and glimmer like the spider web across my bedroom window.
The world fell into place at my fingertips. And I, with the ferocious determination of a 6-year-old, could tug at it, weave it, mold it till my palms were caked with its clay.
Is it possible to know nothing?
These days, I wander. I run circles around this new city, stopping at every tree to revel in the shock of its blossoms. I trip over words. I can’t remember why I ever wanted to write, or study trees, can’t recall where I am from, or why I’m here now, hurdling through hot Spring days.
In this new April sun, my hands are fat and pink.
—Sophie Lamb
