{"id":2995,"date":"2022-01-05T11:59:07","date_gmt":"2022-01-05T19:59:07","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/?p=2995"},"modified":"2024-12-17T09:32:41","modified_gmt":"2024-12-17T17:32:41","slug":"bearing-witness-by-sonia-greenfield","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/bearing-witness-by-sonia-greenfield\/","title":{"rendered":"\u201cBearing Witness\u201d by Sonia Greenfield"},"content":{"rendered":"
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\"Willow<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

Found in\u00a0Willow Springs 79<\/em><\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Back to Author Profile<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n

\n\n

\u201cBearing Witness\u201d by Sonia Greenfield<\/h1>\n\n\n\n

It rubs off on us like brushing up<\/p>\n\n\n\n

against a dirty car or the way<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a dusty window screen leaves<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a crosshatch of black on our palms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remember my mother’s boyfriend\u00ad<\/p>\n\n\n\n

not him, but her head against maybe<\/p>\n\n\n\n

mirror, maybe sliding glass door? I see<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a shatter held together, but I don’t<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

know where light came from to etch<\/p>\n\n\n\n

splinters in what broke. I remember<\/p>\n\n\n\n

hiding in my attic bedroom, kitchen<\/p>\n\n\n\n

knife in hand, and the overwhelming<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

wood rot of that house when I<\/p>\n\n\n\n

witnessed what made my mother<\/p>\n\n\n\n

human in the way we say after all,<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

she’s<\/em> only<\/em> human<\/em>.<\/em> She made extravagant<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

mistakes in a town I can’t come back to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Once, she was a barmaid in the shack<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of the Shady Lake Tavern back when<\/p>\n\n\n\n

they called them that, a place where men<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

nodded off at two in the afternoon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was just a girl who wore nightgowns<\/p>\n\n\n\n

and was unable to sort out why I found<\/p>\n\n\n\n

her in the kitchen with a wound<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

on her scalp like a bear clawing, some<\/p>\n\n\n\n

ugly mugging, all for beery dollar bills<\/p>\n\n\n\n

tucked into her apron. But maybe I’m<\/p>\n\n\n\n

making this up-not the image of<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

her ruined scalp or her hair crusted<\/p>\n\n\n\n

with the blood of an afternoon gone<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to waste, but the reason for this image<\/p>\n\n\n\n

branded on a childhood mile gone<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

and as faint as the delicate luminescence<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of white Christmas lights on December<\/p>\n\n\n\n

snow fallen on the Lutheran church<\/p>\n\n\n\n

on Washington Street. I remember a girl<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

from high school who hid in my eaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We used to shoplift make-up in Rite Aid<\/p>\n\n\n\n

though I thought it was wrong even if<\/p>\n\n\n\n

it was the eyeliner I used for my careful<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

magic. She was beautiful like glossy crows<\/p>\n\n\n\n

picking through trash, and we disguised<\/p>\n\n\n\n

her from a mother who came looking for<\/p>\n\n\n\n

that slut.<\/em> I spent the night at her house once<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

when she wet her bed. She hated her<\/p>\n\n\n\n

half-sister and stepfather, hated her mother\u00ad<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a woman as hard and painted as graffitied<\/p>\n\n\n\n

rocks along the rock-cut road leaving town<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

to the north. Tell me, what good was I<\/p>\n\n\n\n

when I didn’t know what I was seeing?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Like this girl’s shame lost on me<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who was lost in my own witnessing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I want to say sorry for accusing her<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of stealing a favorite shirt actually stolen<\/p>\n\n\n\n

by my sister. Some of us make it through<\/p>\n\n\n\n

untouched. Why was the night sky pink<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

when it snowed? Once, my mother’s<\/p>\n\n\n\n

boyfriend spray-painted my name<\/p>\n\n\n\n

on those rocks next to the highway,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

but I don’t know why he did it or why<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I cling to this memory although the paint<\/p>\n\n\n\n

didn’t cling very long. Anyway, it was<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a town of scant employment and women<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who never wanted to be nurses and annual<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

carnivals and a downtown of defunct<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Woolworth’s and antiquated streetlights<\/p>\n\n\n\n

that may recall the lacquer of hairspray<\/p>\n\n\n\n

wool coats and a bandstand happy<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

to host boys back from the Second<\/p>\n\n\n\n

World War. A town now in the midst<\/p>\n\n\n\n

of revival with fussy pubs and first world<\/p>\n\n\n\n

coffee. But I can’t go home because<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

the houses still lean on their posts like<\/p>\n\n\n\n

wounded veterans, and chestnuts fall<\/p>\n\n\n\n

from the trees like a hard knock rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And I can’t carve FTW <\/em>on my arm<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

with a hatpin or draw lightning bolts<\/p>\n\n\n\n

from the corners of my eyes anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I’m too tired to ward off spirits. I’m only<\/p>\n\n\n\n

able to bear witness. My mother lived<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

with addicts her whole life in a town where<\/p>\n\n\n\n

twelve-step programs filled church annexes<\/p>\n\n\n\n

when winter shortened its days. They are<\/p>\n\n\n\n

still in those annexes switching on percolators<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

and forming circles of smokers who double up<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a cold fog exhaled from their mouths like<\/p>\n\n\n\n

gutters shedding dirt-flecked icicles that fall<\/p>\n\n\n\n

to pierce the skin of snow beneath. I blame<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

the dirty snow but not my mother,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

who escaped finally to Florida’s sticky<\/p>\n\n\n\n

heat and tract homes, to its cheap<\/p>\n\n\n\n

T-shirt shops and its tepid ocean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A mother who wears her story in<\/p>\n\n\n\n

a smattering of hazy tattoos and who bears<\/p>\n\n\n\n

her mistakes in the resigned set of a mouth,<\/p>\n\n\n\n

its hard line striking through any of this.<\/p>\n\n<\/div><\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"","protected":false},"author":25234,"featured_media":563,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"wpo365_audiences":[],"wpo365_private":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2995","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured-work"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2995"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/25234"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2995"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2995\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":37956,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2995\/revisions\/37956"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/563"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2995"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2995"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/test-inside.ewu.edu\/willowspringsmagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2995"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}