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Kernel | MY GHOSTS REMIND ME OF A WORLD NOT YET MADE

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I climbed a tree today and let it hold me in my grief. Tangled in its branches, I lay my head down, ear to bark, and listen to its rustle. The sounds of its gentle dance are quieter than I-10 behind me. I lament that I have to drive to reach this park, to come be with my tree. I look down to its roots, then up through its canopy, and take a moment of silence to remember my late mother and her knowledge of the trees. In this moment, the limbs of my body suspended from those of another, my body is nurturing layers of mourning: climate grief, familial loss, and urban decay. I hold climate grief for the ghosts of the trees I do not see — those ripped from Tongva soil and slathered by L.A. concrete. I mourn my mother — her presence, her knowledge, and this story I wish I could tell her. I wrestle with L.A.’s sprawl and her corresponding lack of transit and accessible green space. And yet, at the same time, my body is experiencing unfeigned joy: a thrilling dose of adrenaline (heights are go

Kernel | MY GHOSTS REMIND ME OF A WORLD NOT YET MADE Issue 3 nonfiction MY GHOSTS REMIND ME OF A WORLD NOT YET MADE written by Raya Ward edited by Jessica Zhou art by Kristy Xue Gao I climbed a tree today and let it hold me in my grief. Tangled in its branches, I lay my head down, ear to bark, and listen to its rustle. The sounds of its gentle dance are quieter than I-10 behind me. I lament that I have to drive to reach this park, to come be with my tree. I look down to its roots, then up through its canopy, and take a moment of silence to remember my late mother and her knowledge of the trees

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