Cornus Florida

There’s a hole in my chest. While it always seems to be there, its emptiness doesn’t constantly weigh down on me. It’s most noticeable during the spring. When the winter wanes away, even for just one day, I notice the void and its aching. When the sun shines warm on the ground and the grass is greener than I could ever imagine, that is when the emptiness becomes clearer.

It sits heavy, just below my heart. It pulls my spine forward and my head downwards. I feel dizzy and nauseated. Euphoric and desperate all at once. I’m floating up towards the ceiling and sinking down towards the ground. A living contradiction. My limbs grow slack, muscle and bone unable to keep shape against the all-consuming ache in my chest.

I’m 21 years old. I’m in my college apartment in New York. It’s 10am, and my heart pounds in recognition of the weather. I stand by my window and feel my lungs buckle from the weight of the sun.

I often get struck with visions of the past. Memories that I thought I buried resurface and pull me under their waves. It’s hard to get out of my own head at times like these. While the springtime is meant for new beginnings and fresh starts, I find myself trapped in the memories of who I used to be.

I’m 15 years old. I live in the parsonage of my hometown’s church, though my mother is not a priest. In the far-too-early-morning, I’ve been left to my own devices. I crawl down the spiral staircase like a ghost. My eyes are wide with energy in spite of my lack of sleep. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt tired. A chill runs through my body as the floorboards creak, my body taut like a bowstring. I shuffle out onto the porch to watch the sunrise. As I sit I see a ladybug. It crawls onto my knee, and I wonder if it’s affected by the void’s gravitational pull as well.

I’ve always felt that I was missing the thing that makes someone a person. I’ve always attributed this feeling to the hole in my chest. In every interaction, I appear to make a misstep. I miss the social cue. I don’t smile quite right. I share the wrong thing at the wrong time. I see how their smiles become strained, and how they share knowing glances with others around them. They don’t say it out loud, but I can tell I don’t belong. There’s always been something distinctly alien about me that everyone but me can clearly see, but I notice the way they treat me in return.

I’m 17 years old. I’m lying in my childhood bedroom at my grandparents’ house in Ohio (it used to be my uncle’s bedroom—the football wallpaper and marine window stickers were never something I would choose for myself—but it suits me all the same). The dogwood out the window is pink with blossoms. If I focus hard enough, I can feel the petals between my fingers. The hole is confining me to the twin-sized mattress, its weight too heavy to move. The heated blanket is thrown off onto the floor, and the pilling on the ancient cotton quilt pilling rubs against my calves and socks.

It’s weird knowing there are places I can never return to. I’ve had so many homes throughout my life. So many things I’ve left behind. I wish I had spent more time etching them into memory. Every time I move, I hope it’ll be the last. I ache with the knowledge of all that I’ve lost. I don’t take the time to see what I have gained.

I’m 11 years old. I am afraid. I live in the townhouse with my mother and her current boyfriend. My laptop lies split in two on the floor of my bedroom at the hands of my mother, and I regret ever being awake. The hole has consumed most of the shock, and my face has long gone numb. The tears refuse to fall. I drag the void into my bed and try to rationalize the worst that’s yet to come. I wait for my mother to return and get ready to leave. On the forty-five-minute drive to school, I notice the occasional dogwood trees and admire the purple sunrise.

When you float from place to place, you try to find small things to take root in. Sometimes I will remember something I left behind, but I don’t process that it’s fully gone. I go searching for it. Hoping that it’s followed me for all these years. I try to find any proof that it existed, scrolling through photos and dead group chats for evidence. The hole always aches worse when I fail to find what I’m searching for.

I’m 21 years old. I’m in a one-bedroom apartment in Pennsylvania. I shut off my work laptop at 4:30pm on the dot. Earlier, I had opened the window to let some air in. A cool breeze fills my lungs, and my head spins with the sweet smell of pollen in the air. My throat closes. I blame it on the allergies. I’m restless. I move from my bed to the living room floor. The large window casts its light on me; I couldn’t escape it if I tried.

I’m scared of the idea that maybe I’m not missing anything at all. That the hole inside my chest is a mere figment of my imagination. That all my flaws are who I am, and I am broken beyond repair. When I stare into the mirror, I don’t know who I see.

I’m 7 years old. There’s a dogwood tree in the backyard. It’s tall, taller than anything I could ever imagine. The pale pink petals settle on the mulch on the roots. The wood of the tree is comfortingly rough against my palm. I begin the balancing act. Steadily climbing higher and higher branches until I feel a void in my chest. I’m not scared to fall. I want to fly.

It would be easier to just say I’m homesick. That I’m just longing to return to a place that no longer exists, a place I can no longer return to. But it wouldn’t be the truth. The hole has always been there. It keeps the missing things I’ve left behind and reminds me how far I’ve come. Spring is a mark of survival. The pain lets me know I’m still alive.

There’s a dogwood tree in my chest. While it’s always there, the tree isn’t constantly in bloom. It comes to life in the spring. When the winter wanes away, I can feel it blossoming. The branches fill my veins. The leaves populate my heart. The vibrant pink flowers take root in my lungs, yet I find it easier to breathe now than I ever have before.