by Jenlyn Voss
It starts with a polite knock, easily ignored, like the solar sales team that canvasses my neighborhood. I run the vacuum, maneuvering around the distraction, carrying on with my day until the jaunty chime of the doorbell startles me while I load the dishwasher. A reminder that Anxiety is waiting on my porch.
In the absence of my attention, it swells until the pounding on the front door mirrors the pounding of my heart. Finally, jimmying the lock, Anxiety barrels in, tracking panic on my clean floors.
I’ve learned to sit patiently in the living room as she tears through my house, my body on edge, mind curious, wondering who invited this unwelcome guest.
Eventually, Anxiety tires of tipping over my careful stacks of self-help books. She’s stress-eaten her way through the cupboard and fridge, even the dried dates I’d pushed to the back, their glossy brown exteriors reminding me of roaches.
Exhausted and with no more chaos to create, Anxiety stands before me, breathing heavily.
I take her small, familiar hand, pulling her down to sit beside me, tenderly brushing the damp bangs from her forehead. Her breath starts to slow as I place my favorite rocks in her pockets, hoping the weight will help her feel like she is here and real.
In her eyes, I see the fear, the anger, the terrible sadness that lies beneath.
We’ve known each other for fifty years. For forty; I’ve avoided her; now I sit with her on my sofa. I ask what she needs: a cup of tea, a warm bath, a book to stop the racing thoughts, or a walk to walk them off?
Eventually, she lets me lead her out. I softly close the door, flipping on the porch light for the next visitor.
Jenlyn Voss is a California writer whose work explores memory, trauma, healing, and the search for home through hybrid memoir, lyric prose, and poetry. She is at work on her unpublished hybrid memoir, Moving Home, from which these pieces are excerpted. When not writing, she works in mental health care and as a mixed media artist.
Emerge Literary Journal 