Back in Time, A Poem

by Jenny Morelli

I hadn’t thought about Felicity in years

until her name appeared online

announcing her death

in a gang-related shooting,

and in a blink, I was transported

back to those woods

just beyond the chain link fence

caging the path for middle-schoolers,

a haven for bullies.

I was walking home, all frizzy halo,

crooked glasses, cringe-worthy tie-dyed hoodie,

Image credit: Never Dull Studio on Unsplash

overfull backpack sagging against my legs.

September humidity

glued bugs to my bare arms.

Strong scents of loam, honeysuckle

and swampy tree rot

enveloped me. Birds, squirrels

and frogs surrounded me with chirps

and barks and croaks. Dappled sun

sank, stretching my shadow like taffy. 

My mind on Marcus,

the sixth-grade heartthrob,

deep in fantasy of his lips on mine,

I was deaf to my surroundings;

lost count of my body’s mosquito-

welted topography. I didn’t hear her

approach, which made it easy

for the notorious Felicity

from the city to grab my bag

and yank. I almost fell.

Crossed my arms to look tougher

as she stood towering over me,

flaunting her studded jacket,

graffitied jeans and too much lipstick

for an eleven- year-old.

I couldn’t hear her words

over my thundering terror,

but her lips were surely hurling

insults and threats and ultimatums

like stones.

‘Are you deaf?’ she barked,

then ‘I said take off your glasses.’

And time stopped like it always did

in moments like those,

and in that moment, 

I imagined my glasses crunched

and mutilated beneath the heel

of her skull-and-crossbones-

stickered Doc Martin boots.

I couldn’t breathe.

Couldn’t blink.

Couldn’t move.

No birds chirped.

No frogs croaked.

No bugs bit.

I gauged how far away

that faraway laughter was;

entertained the thought

of plowing past her.

Sized her up.

Calculated the odds

of beating her in a fight.

In the seismic wave of panic,

a cloud blotted the sinking sun,

and time began again, a carousel

cranking back to life with birds

and frogs and bugs and sweat.

I uncrossed my arms.

Exhaled a heavy word

that shifted the seismic wave

of panic. ‘No.’

Felicity’s smile slipped. ‘What’d you say?’

I almost took it back, but instead,

repeated it. ‘I said no.’

And she retreated, brows furrowed.

Shook her head as I extended my hand,

stared at it like she might

an unholstered gun. The forest

and birds and frogs and bugs

all held their breath as she laughed,

all of us unsure what to do,

how to react.

I braced myself

for what she’d do next.

Never would’ve guessed

she’d reach out her hand,

shake mine too hard, wrap her arm

around me, and walk with me home.

Felicity turned her life around that year,

became my best friend and together,

Image credit: Greg Rosenke on Unsplash

we discovered that the letters in violence

also spell love and nice and live and once.

We were unstoppable.

Unbreakable. Protected other outcasts

and rejects. We were a good team,

but then, one weekend, Felicity left

and never returned.

I never heard from her again

until her name appeared online

announcing her death in a gang-related

shooting, which devastated me

because once upon a time,

we walked the halls preaching violence

wasn’t the answer. It shouldn’t even be

a question.

***

Jenny Morelli

Jenny Morelli is a high school English teacher who lives in New Jersey with her husband and cat. She is often either inspired by her students or else they're triggering memories in her of when she was young and struggling with her self-confidence. She has been published in a number of literary magazines, including Spare Parts for a novel excerpt, Spillwords for several themed poems, and Bottlecap Press for her own chapbook This is Not a Drill.