THE DIVIDE

A plant is like life, a person. When we first bury the seed in the dirt, there's no way to know how it will turn out, how it will look, until it sprouts. Until it breathes in all of that sun and moisture from the dirt, influenced by their strength. If it's not watered, taken care of, then it breaks. Roots dissipate and leaves crumble beyond repair. That same light, that same water, oozes into my plants that refuse to grow. Sitting on the windowsill in my bedroom, they mock me, laugh from under their hand-crafted soil—the soil that I created just for them. Weeks and weeks, and still, nothing. I can try my magic, but even after six years of having it, and the constant practicing and learning with the help of my parents, I only manage to expand the roots, which causes the pot to burst. The roots take over my bedroom in the matter of seconds. No. I can't think like that. This time might be different. “Please, just work. For me," I whisper, inhaling to find my center of focus, then letting the air out in a sigh. I hover my hand over the pot, before lowering it closer to the soil. I close my eyes, feel the roots, the core of the young flower. When I open my eyes, a bit of green pops from the dirt. The roots didn't explode, like they have all those times before. This, this is progress. Maybe, just maybe, I can make it grow a little more. I do the same thing as before, find the core of the flower, and— I cover my head and duck as a large, thick vine crashes into the ceiling, powder dust sprinkling my hair. That is not what I had in mind. But it's something, I guess. I meet the vine that has impaled my ceiling and slowly step away from it to leave my bedroom. Dad is standing on the other side of the door as I open it. “Everything okay here? Another root explosion?" he asks, trying to peek into my bedroom. “Uh…" I scratch the back of my neck. “Something like that. You know how to fix a hole in a ceiling, right?" Before he can answer, our attention turns to the sound of footsteps coming from the stairs. Soon, Mom enters our view, arms crossed. I give her an awkward wave, and internally pray that she doesn't forbid me from doing magic without any supervision, again. “What's going on here, Michaela? Aren't you supposed to be getting ready for school?" “I am ready… for school. I had some extra time before I had to go, and I thought I would practice, you know? I just didn't expect anything to, uh, puncture my ceiling." Mom hums and pushes past Dad and I, greeted by the vine raising its hands towards the sky. I follow Mom back into my bedroom, Dad trailing behind. “It's better than the whole root thing. I'm getting better at this. Definitely getting better. Please say I'm getting better." There's a brief silence. Nothing but the intake and release of air from our noses, and, of course, the cars passing by on the busy school morning. I forgot I left my window open a little, just enough for a winter cold breeze to enter and drown out the heat flowing out from the radiators. I glimpse towards the clock on my side table next to my bed. About twenty minutes until I need to get to school. “Mom?" “It's impressive, Michaela, really." She settles her hand on my shoulder, pats it a few times. “Next time, don't put so much power into it. Perhaps that's something we can work on this weekend." I nod, and she leaves the room, probably going back downstairs. Excitement bubbles up in me. It doesn't last very long because I have to remember, I still have a hole in my ceiling. “So are you gonna fix that, or am I gonna have a random hole in my ceiling forever? Actually, now that I look at it more, it's not so bad. Really fits the style of the room." He laughs. “Yes, Michaela, I will. After work, I'll get it done," Dad says as he approaches the vine. He lifts his hand to guide the vine back down to a reasonable height. Small, pink flowers pop from its sides. He has so much control. Whenever he or Mom uses their magic, I'm left wondering: how long did it take them to get to that point, to have full control? Seems like a dream that's too far away from me. Understanding and perfecting the magical craft of a Druid takes time, practice. Mom once told me of a Druid whose magic never fully refined before his death at eighty-six. He still made mistakes. That story does make me feel better every time she tells me it, but it also places more pressure on my spine, to have my magic be free of errors and mistakes. To die knowing that magic was all in my hands, my control, and my control only. Five minutes pass as I gather my things, notebooks, pencils, homework, and with my backpack over my shoulders, I go downstairs to leave for school. In the kitchen, my parents sit at the marble island, enjoying their breakfasts. As good as it smells, I don't have the time. I need to take something for the road. I grab a granola bar from the pantry and stuff it in the side pocket of my backpack. “I'm heading out. I'll be back, you know, the usual time. See ya later." I open the front door, but Mom clears her throat, grabbing my attention. “Yes?" “What about breakfast?" she asks. “I really need to go. Time is not my friend today. And I grabbed something, so don't worry." “All right. Just be careful, okay?" “Michaela, no magic. Not under any circumstances," Dad chimes in. “We can't risk—" I sigh. “Exposure, because it can put me and all of the other Mystics in danger. I know. Look, I'm eighteen now. You don't have to give me the speech every single time I leave the house." They exchange glances, like they know what the other is thinking. I never understood it. It's probably a couple's thing, or whatever. Mom looks back at me, a smile tugging at her lips. “I'm sorry. We just worry, is all. Have a great day at school." “Yep." I wave them goodbye and close the door. It makes sense that this troubles them—using my magic in public for any reason—but I'm older now. I keep who I am to myself, under lock and key and stashed away in the deepest depths of my soul. We are safe. I am safe. Everything's fine. Right?