by Clara Johnson ’26 on January 22, 2026
Portfolio - Prose
A Fragment of a Memory
I must have been a little thing to be so tangled in my mom’s arms. I must have been so small.
It is night. We rock back and forth in the blue rocking chair in the corner of the dark room. Shadowed branches scratch the windows and thunder gurgles, though no rain falls, not yet.
Scritch…Scratch…Rumble
It is night, and the thunder cracks this time, and the branches slam a little harder on the window. I feel the rumble in my throat and my stomach. I let out a little yelp, and my hands clench against the yellow plastic sippy cup.
It is night. It is stormy, but she feels like golden afternoon. She pulls me closer to her. She smells like old books and cinnamon tea. She smells like hot chocolate in my yellow plastic sippy cup. I must have been so small to be tangled in her ringlets.
It is night, and she does not sing. She does not sing except for one song every night. A single, listless note, high and sweet to drown out the storm
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Mama, what happened?
My Old Oak Tree
Weathered and tethered we return to the fields in the woods behind my parents’ house where once my bare feet squelched on soggy earth.
Where once there was a gateway to a deciduous world abounding in the hazy ecstasy of wonder which twisted through the stalwart poplars. That haze which entangled with the wildflowers at their base. Where once fairies wound flowers through my hair and daylight danced and flecked over the woods. Where once, we were warriors and mermaids and mages.
Where once, the oak tree stood.
But now we return, my sister and I, taller and with backs more rigid.
The wind whispers through the wooden squadron and softens their fragility into gentleness like mother’s arms, swaying and waving and staying. Like mother’s arms wrapped around you in the old blue rocking chair, smelling like cinnamon and paper. The wind like mother’s voice,
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
Early in the morning, when the sun is still peaking and glancing, the dawn creaks, and the old mingles with the dawning new. The crickets croak on, and night owls still croon, and the moon holds steady above. But the sun haloes the horizon, and the morning doves chirp too, and mingle with the night sounds.
Everything is cast in gold or maybe silver, cast in the surreal light of almost.
So we return, my sister and I, to collect wildflowers from the fields in the woods behind our house.
Behind our old house.
We sink our feet into the earth like yesterday and tread over leaves dried and fallen, their crunch softened to a rustle by the fall of early spring rains. It smells like rain too, like rain on the earth. What is that smell? Someone told me once it’s bacteria in the soil that the rain coaxes or wrenches into the air, but someone else told me it’s the blood of god defused—how different are those things anyway? Wildflowers peak through the rotting leaves, which smell like bacteria or maybe god. They press on, undaunted by the decay, the winsome smell of almost. We will put the wildflowers in glass bottles of my favorite peach tea and press them in thin pages of my mother’s Bible to capture them, in the moment between.
How long can we stay here between, before the sun crests and the wildflowers die?
How long can we stay here…before we have to move?
How long do you think?
How long?