The Dead Layer

Arielle Hebert

Ten years after Florida and I can still remember that girl,

burning in alchemical fire, 

joy hungry. She never dreamedshe’d outlive leaving home. But here I am.

In oil painting, you must first paint the dead layer.

Unseen foundations, lumps and scrapes for depth and texture.

And I took such care with my dead layer, thoughtI’d live my whole life there. 

But it’s been ten years.

My winter skin has lost its tolerance for sun.

Visiting home is a training exercise in breathing underwater,

and I was never the strongest swimmer. 

Meanwhile, I’ve met mountains. Seasons. 

True hearts.

I curve the palette knife loaded with paint, layer after layer.

For pines and hemlocks, for diving into the Eno quarry sinkholeand floating down the Haw River with my love.

For October’s pumpkin patches and February’s daffodils.

Summer’s green veiling our nearest neighbor.

Now I know. The chroma, the brilliance.

None of it could have happened without rowing in the channelunder the one-lane bridge at Blackburn Point, without Banyan treesor hibiscus flowers, without those early parties on 39th Streetand the fights at Bayshore, without chain smoking griefaway in the side yard, and loving people at the wrong time,without sunburns and oranges, all the blue hours,low tides, crushed white moonshells underneath.