{"id":2829,"date":"2022-12-08T00:12:17","date_gmt":"2022-12-08T00:12:17","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/?page_id=2829"},"modified":"2022-12-08T00:12:17","modified_gmt":"2022-12-08T00:12:17","slug":"because-of-you-i-write-by-marina-ramil","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.miamioh.edu\/oxmag\/because-of-you-i-write-by-marina-ramil\/","title":{"rendered":"“Because of You, I Write” by Marina Ramil"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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       They say dark painted walls make a room look smaller but these, the color of blackberry juice, contain multitudes. There\u2019s a dog in the corner snoring, a hound resting his jowly face and heavy ears on wide, wrinkled paws. I stand by the wooden table with unfinished edges, two slabs joined together by butterfly joints. Someone laid a sheet of periwinkle muslin across it and dotted it with their dishes. A stew still so hot it\u2019s bubbling, the chunks of carrot and potato bobbing up to the surface then sinking out of sight. An intricately woven loaf of bread someone has lovingly strewn sprigs of rosemary atop. A pot of rice that had been tipped over onto a platter so you could see the crisped bottom, golden and glistening with oil. A bed of greens torn by hand then tossed in vinaigrette and topped with walnuts and dried cranberries. A quaint blackberry pie with a ceramic dove bursting forth from its center. A large crystal bowl of steaming wassail dotted with orange slices. Even at the edges of the room farthest from the heat of the food, this party was uncomfortably warm. People were standing too close to one another. Pink scarves were draped over lamps so they\u2019d cast tinted light. The hum from the stereo was familiar modal jazz. \n       A tall red fox stood in a tweed three-piece suit.\n       I wasn\u2019t watching when he came in but recognized immediately that the sage green scarf hung on the coat rack by the door was his. Tight double crochet. Someone made that scarf for him. They used their own two hands. They bent over the yarn for an hour or two. They held it up every once in a while to see if it was long enough, good enough for him yet. And he had taken it off and hung it on the coat rack. \n       He did not talk to anyone on his way over to me. He did not look at them. He looked at me, looked down his long, straight snout at me.\n       When I was four feet tall, I would let the screen door slam shut behind me while my mother chopped onions for dinner. We had a great big fence of rotting wood and grass too tall. On a more stable picket, a tendril of green garden peas grew. I would pick as many as I could fit in my sweaty palms and wait for it. When it came, a bag of bones and red fur with a tail like a switch flicking behind it, I would turn to make sure my mother wasn\u2019t looking and stick my hands out at it. It ate the pea pods one by one off my hands. Once, it caught my skin with a tooth and stared at me with big brown eyes, ashamed, before running off. I\u2019d tell my mother I had given myself a paper cut from turning the pages too quickly on my big, beautiful animal encyclopedia. I\u2019d bandage it myself and she\u2019d give me a sippy cup of juice. She didn\u2019t bother to check for herself what it looked like and I would go back to the fox the next night, pretending like what happened hadn\u2019t happened.\n       This fox, the one standing on two feet in oxfords, lifted a paw to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and sighed, \u201cI\u2019m probably going to head out. I can\u2019t do the whole potluck thing. I want to be able to sit down and take my time, y\u2019know? And I hate talking to these people, y\u2019know?\u201d\n       He looked off at the crowd around us and I thought I did know but wished I didn\u2019t.\n       \u201cOkay. I said I was going to go back to hers soon anyway for that other thing.\u201d\n       That night the fox of my childhood bit me, I sat up in my twin bed and prayed for 5 minutes more than I usually would. I prayed for everything I knew just in case. I prayed for the fox. That he\u2019d get more food. That he\u2019d find a good home. That the cut on my hand would heal well. That when the scab became a scar and I kept growing someday I would barely see it. That no one would ask where it had come from. That he\u2019d come back tomorrow even if he bit me again. That he\u2019d keep coming back even if he bit me every single time.\n       When I told the fox, the one wearing the kind of jacket with patches on the elbows, that I would be leaving too, just as he had told me he planned to a moment before, he breathed out a little laugh.\n       \u201cWhat?\u201d I said it as quietly as I could, so maybe he wouldn\u2019t hear and I wouldn\u2019t have to find out.\n       \u201cI just think it\u2019s really fucked up. How often does this sort of thing happen and you\u2019re just, what? Making other plans at the same time?\u201d\n       I went to school the day after the bite and told anyone who asked that it was a paper cut. Some of the other children were talking on the playground about their pet dogs. A german shepherd that lives outside and really isn\u2019t allowed inside ever. A pitbull, but we have to say he\u2019s a mix because of that law \u2013  have you heard about it? A black lab with a graying face who sometimes plops down on the ground so hard we\u2019re worried he won\u2019t be able to pick himself back up. So, I told them I had a fox. My fox was faster and stronger than their dogs. No, it\u2019s not, they would argue, because my dog runs around Kennedy Park on the weekends or totally once lifted the couch up by itself or can carry me on its back for actually a really long time even though he\u2019s pretty old. Come over to my house and see, they\u2019d say. I would go over to their houses and see their dogs. They were just dogs. Then they would come over to my house, but the fox was never there. They\u2019d have to take my word for it.\n       I can\u2019t look this fox, the one wearing a plain, gold wedding band on his finger, in the eye, but it doesn\u2019t matter. I do not put up a fight.\n       \u201cOkay, so then I won\u2019t. No, you\u2019re totally right. I should have thought like\u2026 I can go over to hers for that thing any time. Whatever you were originally thinking.\u201d\n       He made the noise again. A little laugh that isn\u2019t a laugh that says, \u201cYou are fucking up. I am smarter than you. I still love you but I do not like you right now. However, I will never love you and protect you the same way I love and protect myself, but explain to me why I should when you are fucking up like you are right now.\u201d\n       The first time they put me in the booth, I begged forgiveness for lying about the source of the cut on my hand. The man on the other side of the lattice window stared straight ahead as he listened, giving no indication of his thoughts. I stared at his hands clasped in his lap, large but unmarred by calluses. The assumption, I take it, is that you will find your closure in the absolution. The act of contrition got caught in my throat. I exited the booth to perform penance with a locked jaw. The next time I saw the man it was on the school side, the sisters\u2019 dominion. He had come to see how the winter fundraiser, dollar hot cocoa for the victims of one of the disasters, was progressing. He approached me with recognition, knew my name, and asked if I wanted one of the steaming styrofoam cups. I said I didn\u2019t have the money and he knelt down to strike a deal. He\u2019d buy it in exchange for a hug, during which he whispered in my ear how bright I was. His hands, unblemished, clasped too tightly and lingered on what hips I had, still four feet tall.\n       I had no compelling argument for this fox, whose red fur thins at his temples. Why expend the energy explaining yourself to someone who is always right?\n       I walked him to the door quietly, watching as he draped the scarf over his shoulders. Why wear it if not to bring you warmth?\n       When we stepped onto the porch and were out of the party\u2019s sight, he wrapped me in a tight hug. I did not cry. Nor did I as he walked away. He did not look back.\n       Eventually, I did show my mother the scar on my hand. She cried and insisted, if she had known, she\u2019d have repaired the rotting fence ages ago. We don\u2019t live in that house anymore, but the fence still stands. On quiet days, I drive past it to see if the peas still grow. The fox is never there. Sometimes, during conversations which have little to do with that old life of ours, my mother will suddenly announce, \u201cIsn\u2019t it good that he stopped coming around? We never had to tell him to, he just did. On his own volition.\u201d I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s good. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019ll ever stop driving past the old house to see if he changed his mind.\n       When this fox, the one who put on wire-rimmed sunglasses as he walked down the sidewalk, faded into the horizon, I turned on my heel and entered the party once more. I did not talk to anyone on my way to the wooden table in the back. I did not look at them. I served myself a plate and walked right back out the door. I sat on the brick stoop with my legs uncrossed, quite unladylike. As I adjusted myself to get comfortable, my stockings caught on the uneven caulking. I did not fawn over the rip, I tucked into my meal. I picked the cranberries and walnuts out of the salad first and placed each leaf into my mouth gingerly with my thumb and forefinger. I spooned the stew over the rice and, when it was done, sopped up the boozy, fatty liquid with a chunk of bread. I ate my slice of pie with a great towering dollop of whipped cream. \n       It was a start.<\/pre>\n<\/div><\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
Marina Ramil <\/strong>(any pronouns) is a student writer and a lifelong reader of all kinds. They and their writing very much live in Miami, Florida, for now.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
They say dark painted walls make a room look smaller but these, the color of blackberry juice, contain multitudes. There\u2019s a dog in the corner snoring, a hound resting his jowly face and heavy ears on wide, wrinkled paws. I stand by the wooden table with unfinished edges, two slabs joined together by butterfly joints. … <\/p>\n
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