Bonus Bit: 'Groundwater' by Tacey M. Atsitty

GroundwaterTacey M. AtsittyIt was the Christmas my sister’s hamsters went missing from their cage. Santa had just brought Kisses and Fatso only two nights prior. The cage was knocked over, but we didn’t put two and two together until her cat Mushy came out of hiding a few hours later. I mean, we weren’t for sure, but we suspected. And my sister just cried. Though we were young, we were no strangers to death. It didn’t help that we were so close to it all the time. Just over the small wall to the east of our house sat a funeral home: Chapel of Memories. The deluge of trucks and cars coming and going from next door and even in front of our house became so common place we hardly noticed it anymore. Someone—we learned—was always grieving. I once snuck past the funeral doors during someone’s family gathering for their dearly departed. I wanted to walk the room with empty coffins. I knew exactly where to go because I had been there a few weeks prior, at my dad’s side, picking out the coffin for my uncle. I was a planner, and I wanted to pick out my own. I sauntered past the high-end ones, not because they were too expensive, but because they simply weren’t me. And they were outdated. At one point, I remember hearing several women howling in the next room over. I knew their grief. Waves stirred and swelled within me. Part of me wanted to join them, but— there it was: a human-sized cedar box with a lacquer so clear it could’ve been hard candy. The coffin had Native designs burned into its sides, but the workmanship on it was just ok. I ran my fingers along the burnt edges, the tips picking up ash— though that coffin most appealed to me because it was lined with Pendleton wool fabric, I decided against it because it was too flashy. So, I went with the plainest of plain wooden boxes. In that one, I knew I’d be lying closest to the earth and all her water.In this clip, I mention another house other than the Homestead that Dickinson lived in where her room overlooked the graveyard. Though she was born in the Homestead on Main Street that her grandfather built, from the age of 9 to 24, Emily lived in a home on North Pleasant Street in Amherst that no longer exists. In 1855, her father having purchased the Homestead back into the family and made renovations to it reflecting the style of the times as well as the message that the Dickinsons were again a family of significant standing in the community, they moved back. Emily was none pleased at the time with this move, but it would coincide with the start, in earnest, of her writing years.Thank you so much for coming along for season one of Melody or Witchcraft! Hey! You made it not only to the last episode of season one, here you are at the final bonus bit! You make it worthwhile! And I wouldn’t steer you wrong—these poets are the best. I’d love your help to keep things going. Why not upgrade to a paid subscription? This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit kathrynpetruccelli.substack.com/subscribe