A New Vision

This story originally appeared in Issue No. 01 of Southlands. You can escape your screen and dive into a print version of the story by ordering a copy in our shop. And be sure to subscribe to receive the next two issues.

The strung-together speech I repeat to myself as our group climbs into the treetops falls apart as I approach the ledge. From here, I’m supposed to step off and lift my legs into a sitting position with my feet crossed at the ankles. Our tour guides assure us that the zip-lining equipment we’ve been buckled and cinched into will hold between platforms. But I take one look over the edge and my legs lock stiff-straight. The ground is gone, hidden under sprawling bushes of greenery. 

Beyond me are the ones who’ve already crossed over; from where I stand, they look like specks of light. Behind me are the last of our group, the ones who thought they’d feel a little less shaky once their turn came. I’ve lost a few extra minutes of mental preparation because the guy before me approached that same ledge, looked down, and decided he loved his life too much to go any further. Now, it’s my turn. I have a decision to make. Everyone waits. I look around at my options, desperately wanting those extra minutes back. 

“Take your time,” says one of the zip-lining instructors, a young girl around my age. “This is always the hardest part for beginners.” 

When my momma’s childhood friend invited us to this park lodge in Alabama, I expected to spend a relaxing weekend watching the birds sway along the lake’s ever-blue surface from a bedroom window. I’m not the type to go deep-sea diving with sharks or hike the Appalachian Trail from Georgia to Maine. I’ve spent every day since the lockdown began over a year ago inside with the air-conditioning and my immediate family. So I wasn’t expecting to sign myself up for a zip-lining course upon arriving. But once we drove into this unending, idyllic expanse, the scenery moved me. I wanted to get out and explore as much of it as possible—an urge I’d rarely, if ever, felt before. 

It’s the same restlessness I get whenever I go for a walk in my momma’s neighborhood back in Georgia. This is fear.