The first time I saw it clearly, I thought something had died and then changed its mind about staying dead. Red, obscene fingers pushed out of a pale, egg-like sac, slick with slime, reeking of rot so dense it felt like a physical pressure in the air. It didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Its existence alone was an intrusion, a violation of what a backyard is supposed to be.
I kept my distance, but I couldn’t stop watching it. Day after day, I checked to see if it had spread, if the ground had started birthing more of them. It didn’t. It simply remained, a quiet, unapologetic reminder that the world is not curated for my comfort. I used to think my yard was mine. Now I understand I’m only borrowing the surface, and something far older is just letting me pretend.
