HEAVY FOOTSTEPS

A JOURNEY ON FOOT THROUGH SOLVANG

Chapter 1: How A Heavy Spirit Possesses the Author

President’s Day Eve, 2022. It is lonely at the top, and in command. As I sit at the wheel, as I have for the past two hours — and maybe another two and a half hours before a three-hour stop in Harmony: population 18, earlier — a heaviness set itself atop of me. Being on top is preferred, being number one is best, because no one remembers number two. But if I were number two today, I would have been able to evade the heaviness of responsibility. 

For as far as the road stretches, and as far as my eye can see, there is no destination. If I continued in this vehicle and in this direction, would I reach the end of the world? Would I end up back where I started? With the world inside and outside slowly becoming heavy as well — heavy in darkness and silence — the end seemed to be upon me too suddenly but felt unreachable all at the same time. 

To the right, an open field is fenced into neat squares with wood and wire. I see feathered creatures running around, some sitting, some with friends, some alone. Even from my moving vehicle, I can tell that these creatures are immense in size. Their necks are long enough to lay across the windshield comfortably, or so it seems. A sort of feathered dinosaur, dark brown feathers in some areas, especially in the center, but near bald in other areas, namely the head and feet. What an interesting design; I wonder if their extremities ever get too cold, but perhaps not, as they would be able to tuck their extremities into themselves. My extremities are cold too, as we have finally arrived at the destination and step out into the darkening world and chilling wind.

Chapter 2: Confrontation by a Swarm of Angry Bees

“Just so you know, the bookstore is closing very soon, in around ten minutes! Feel free to take a look around before then, though.” With permission, I enter the store and float upstairs. The walls around me are made of paper, bound together in different colors and materials and sizes. I wonder if I should enter a different world if I selected one of the pieces of the wall and pulled it out of place, for myself. With or without cracking open the wall piece, I reckon I would be transported to another world. The dimensions beyond may also contain an array of comfortable lounging furniture — a space to escape from the chaos and disturbances of the unprotected environment outside the walls. 

Disturbingly, the confines of the walls may also contain an array of uncomfortable lounging furniture, made of cold and unforgiving materials. The walls within the walls may be constructed of the same unforgiving material, and what’s more, they may be adorned with destructive tools and contraptions, only as terrible as the mind of the Creator and Leader of that World. I shudder; the draft enters through an open window. I am now upstairs, surrounded by words from an exhibit, though I admit the lights inside and outside are too dim, and my brain is too fogged up to properly process any of the words.

A sudden appearance of footsteps on the floor alarms me, but what turns the corner is not that of a woman, but of a swarm of bees. Where are the feet that she is making these stepping sounds with? “Excuse me, the museum is closed. Yeah. That’s why the area is blocked off, and the signs are there. You’re not allowed to be here anymore.” What a firm voice, and how angry. Or is this not a voice, but just buzzing? Despite my attempts to ward off the buzzing insects, the persistent noise and fluttering of their tiny wings drove me from my stagnant position. Despite my best efforts to ward off the heaviness of the day before, I had neglected to pinpoint the exact time and day of the current moment. I was so occupied with the destination, in finding the endpoint, that I had barged through a barrier indicating a new endpoint. How inflexible and inconsiderate of me, but an honest mistake: why couldn’t the bees have been more gentle?

All it takes is one harsh sting to ruin someone’s day, when there was no harm meant by the mistake. Is this what the older generations mean when they say that we’re too soft? That we’re snowflakes? What’s the big idea about being too soft, though, is it not a fine characteristic to be empathetic and understanding? Why is being called a snowflake such an insult to begin with? Of course, residing in California, the temperate winters do not offer very many opportunities to observe the beauty of snowflakes. For me, zero opportunities to study the intricate ice crystals had ever been offered, even in the select few periods of time during which my environment was frigid and unfriendly enough to release solid clouds of white from above. 

By the time I’d resurfaced from my tangent, I was back downstairs, outside, and in the cold. Feeling wrongfully accused and assaulted by the woman-turned-swarm-of-bees, I sat briefly on the pile of rocks, weighed down by her piercing words and chaotic demeanor.

Chapter 3: Food Journey and End

We were in line past their closing time, but the owner came out and announced they would be selling as much as the remaining batter would allow. I found it curious that this was not common practice because food waste is tragic for both the environment and the establishment’s budget. However, the workers have to stay extra time with little benefit, and the respect I demonstrate for the environment and the extra food should be extended to their time as well. 

A girl’s monotone yet sentimentally charged voice interjects the silence. Her eyes are powdered in nearly the same tone of red as the dough balls are overflowing with, except with a very slight hue of orange, much like the way in which the sun colored the vast sky above us. With the chill of the air, the sky was deceivingly warm! In her past, she’s encountered the same doughy snowballs regularly on trips to the wilderness with family friends. 

As her story fades into silence, my mind flies back a decade, and I’m sitting with her in front of the campfire. The snow is falling, the snowflakes have appeared. Though I try to protect them all, they are drawn to the warmth of the fire. Slowly, almost as if dancing, they fall into the wispy flames and are lost forever. And as the colors of the day fade, so the burden of being number one melts, and I tuck into bed, heavy but anticipatory of the next day.

Words: Anna Fang

Photos: Emily Langton