The Secret Word

Mid-September is a peculiar time, a dreary passage to the equinox when summer wanes but autumn hasn’t fully arrived.

There’s a collective ennui, a dull feeling of being stuck, a fallowness. On this misty day, when a scrim of clouds veiled the sun, a familiar dread darkened my heart.

But dogs don’t care about ennui or even rain—which began as soon as we hopped out of the truck. They urged me forward, happily trotting along the trail, sniffing and wagging their tails.

Still, the dread persisted. I sought help from my guru, Columbo, specifically the episode where the psychologist has a couple of Dobermans and specializes in mind control. He’s a murderer, sure, but he has some good advice: Choose a secret word that has power over all the other words. This is your weapon.

I have a word. I silently say it to release fear and anxiety’s chokehold. Sometimes it works.

***

Like a specter, the German Shepard galloped through the trees. I tightened my dogs’ leashes and stopped, wanting to avoid a scuffle. Deep in the woods, I saw a flash of yellow, heard a “Good boy” and a rustling into the forest.

I thought of the mangy coyote that terrorized my mom’s neighborhood. Brazen and sickened with madness, he stalked the streets, killing cats and chickens and daring someone to do something about it.

Soon, full-grown men marched around with shotguns, walking their big dogs while carrying and not concealing.

But they were too late. Not one of them got the coyote. He was already gone.

***

Discarded tall boys and inhalants littered the sidewalk. Behind the ruins of an old stone cottage, ragged tents peeked from the trees, their inhabitants sleeping it off while dampness seeped into their bones.

Until today, the cottage appeared dormant, lifeless. But unseen vines crawled along the foundation until the hardy tendrils burst through the front door.

And while all around, everything withered and slept, this lone vine bloomed.