GROWING SEASONS
A SHORT STORY BY DAYJHA MCMILLAN
ILLUSTRATIONS BY WYNONNA SUSILO
You and I moved into a domineering house engulfed by blackberry bushes. A modern, energy-efficient, “quick-turnaround” or 3D-printed house, straddling the neck of the Mt. Baker neighborhood in Siʔaɬ or so-called Seattle. I waited all spring, and most of summer, for the fruits to bloom. I love blackberries. They remind me of my favorite parts of growing up — of the Pacific Northwest, my first taste of stability.
It’s a tender thing. Growing up. Soft ankles and a peachy bruised heart. With you, I was childlike, wondrous, obsessive. With you, I was insecure. Want, wanting, wanted: a bottomless pit of desire. My love for you is sandcastles in blistering heat, sticky hands, and Channel Orange bike rides. When we packed our post-bachelor-degree bags and moved back to Seattle together, it was a meeting of our child selves, both of whom had grown up, left, and thus returned. From our cozy compact U-District apartment, where we shared a wall but slept together most nights, to our blackberry-hugged three-story house where we occupied separate floors. I needed space. More space than this massive, fragile-boned house could provide.
August arrives and the blackberries are ripe. You and I, with our newborn-sized Pyrex bowl, walk the twenty steps to the front street to pick fruit. We dream of creating a tart. Or maybe it was a jam? Making love with you in the kitchen — kneading, baking, frosting, macerating — is my favorite thing we do together. I hold this memory close.
Unbearable thorniness found entrance into our fleshy home. Unspoken truths and unsolvable riddles, between us, grew surface scratches into a wounding desperate for healing air.
Seattle is my first home. I moved here as a freshman in high school. Experiencing Seattle, baby's breath before the gentrification boom, was a gift. A beloved Black neighborhood becoming “historically.” Becoming unrecognizable. While living in an almost-fully-gentrified neighborhood, I grappled with the disorientation and my contribution to an actualizing colonial fantasy.
The 3D-printed structure strangling Mt. Baker’s neck will eventually blend into the backdrop of dozens of boxy, lifeless structures — all playing house.
Land remembers.
***
It was October. You were moving out, I was in New York daydreaming about moving there, and the house next to ours—excuse me, mine—caught fire. They say arson is the leading cause of gentrification in south Seattle right now. Buildings, lots, and land that house Seattle family memories "randomly" catching fire after having been excised by rent increases. The house next to mine was not abandoned, per-say, as there were people living inside who simply were not paying rent. This house had the biggest, juiciest blackberry bushes creeping up the stairs nearing its front door.
I came home a week later and this house was torn down. Our home was covered in plastic, preventing soot from sticking to the insides like velcro. The land was paved and the week following, foundations to four new townhomes were being built. The construction company had demolished the enormous blackberry bushes, too. Called them "invasive." Funny how projection works.
I loved this neighborhood; Jimi Hendrix, Judkins, and Sam Smith parks. I loved the families who felt prehistoric. A reminder that they, and their single-family homes, existed before these twin multi-story houses perfectly made for renting individuals who call each other roommate. When I first moved in, I was with my family. My best friend and girlfriend. So much change(d); this house, a tomb.
By March, my indoor plants developed powdery mildew from poor air circulation and many died. The house was too sterile for life, it seemed. I moved into your old bedroom to feel closer to your energy.
I kept that Pyrex bowl of blackberries, deep in the freezer, hoping it might be a symbol of resuscitation. When I finally mustered the nerve to pull them out to thaw, they were mushy. I had to compost them. I ignored the hungry wanting pain in my belly as I did so.
As seasons passed, the townhomes next door lengthened, blocking the sunlight. Clumsily towering before the view of Beacon Hill like a baby calf taking its first steps. Remember when we moved in and watched our first sunset on your balcony connected to your room?
When I decided to move out of this graveyard, it was because my best friend fell in love and moved to Philly. They inspired me. This house could not seem to hold onto love. When you moved out, you changed. I watched you grow into someone I once fell in love with. Someone I wanted to be in love with. Maybe it’s the house. Maybe if I moved out too, love would invade and bring me back to life.
Growing up is a tender thing. Swollen feet and scratchy throats where prickly words make beds. It’s love transformed after gestation. Here we both are: seedlings in dry soil, mothering maple trees protecting against freeze, tulips watercoloring April, and summer rain. You helped me stuff failure into used boxes as silence perfumed the stale atmosphere. We scribbled over labels once written together when we previously packed our Play-Doh adult dreams to move into this house. I’m moving into a “quaint,” overly priced, one-bedroom, Beacon Hill apartment constructed in 1915. I’m finally ripening into self.
One year older, not much wiser, it’s another August and the blackberries have returned. Not the big juicy ones on the front porch of the abandoned house. These fruits are infant, honeysuckle sweet, blossoming near my apartment. I still love blackberries. They remind me of the Pacific Northwest — that growing up is a death. A fermenting process, a bitter tongue, and a piercing truth that we will bloom again.
Dayjha McMillan (they/she) is a local writer, dreamer, and schemer. Their work has been supported by The Kenyon Review, The Seventh Wave, and the Seattle Public Library. You can find Dayjha’s writing in Abolition Feminisms Vol. 2 (Haymarket Books), the Faoileánach Journal, and elsewhere.
Wynonna Susilo (she/her) is an art therapist and art practitioner based in Seattle. Born in Indonesia and a former resident of Singapore, Wynonna incorporates a variety of modalities into her work, including charcoal drawing and Batik, a centuries-old Indonesian textile tradition.