Hands braced against the Y of the limbs and quads prepped to
flex and hoist my body into the tree, I pause. I allow myself to relax and
instead melt forward, bending at the hips, until my shoulders are wedged tight
between the branches. I stare into the palm of a four fingered hand. My left
bicep rests against the sole intact limb; right against the tallest stump where
I once stood. My normal seat, sheared shortest lies next and then the final
severed finger as I continue counterclockwise. Despite having three mangled digits,
the palm still cradles its cargo.
I wiggle left and
right and left again to compress myself further towards this unexplored area:
the crevice where I usually only plant my foot and continue climbing upwards.
The shallowest part of this bowl holds dregs of tree tea. Blanched shards of
pulpy wood look like the abandoned remnants of a kindergartener’s cereal. Awkwardly
I maneuver my hand to reach and pick up a slender shard of bark. One side is a
rough, dull gray. From the cross section I can see it is millimeters thick, a
fraction of the remaining width which is a raw cherry color. I try to pin the
bark back to a naked patch of tree. When I release, the bark tumbles back into the
basin with a littering of leaves. Colors vary from ivory to gray, browns to
almost-reds. Stringy stems jut out of the hash. Pulling one only strips it of
its papery skin. I claw into the half frozen mound and try to release a whole
leaf for observation, but again and again, the leaves only tear.
Below the stump-seat however – the deepest section of the basin – a pond has formed, a glistening frozen surface encapsulating what lies beneath. I see specks of dirt, bits of bark, twigs, and an almost whole, pristinely preserved leaf. I reach forward, straining against the clutch of the limbs on my shoulders to run a finger along the lake. A layer of cold sweat has formed over top. I press down, watch my nail turn deep pink, knuckle bleach white, the water below the surface flex. Still the ice refuses to crack. I examine the object behind the ice-glass. The flesh of the leaf is an orange-tan, almost flesh tone. Dark spots freckle the surface. Veins branch their way from the woody stem to its body with five jagged edges. I pause. Five. Jagged. Edges. I withdraw slightly. Blink once, twice. My heart sputters. Then detonates.
I clamber at the natural litter of the tree’s internal basin, scratching my shoulders and uppers arms on bark. I step back, drop to the ground, the stones cutting into my knees. I claw through the debris, searching for sign of a compound leaf with opposite branching. But all I find around are simple leaves, double serrated edges. Even as they disintegrate in my hands I know.
Not Ash.
My stomach turns. Who told me it was an Ash tree? I close my
eyes as faces flash through my mind: the realtor, the inspector, the neighbor, only
me? They fade. I can’t remember. How could I have been so stupid to think my
tree was something different, unique, special? Like an Ash. When it is a
simple, plain, common Silver Maple.
My lower back creaks as I stand. My exposed fingers sting so
I retract them inside my sleeves. Wind blows through the fabric of my
sweatshirt and forces the hair on my arms to stand. I swallow hard, staring through the blur of burning, salty
water at the broken tree, reflecting on the past six weeks. While this tree-
this common Silver Maple tree- held me as I held the memory of an irreplaceable
boy. I lean my forehead against the gravelly trunk.
If you were a Ceiba,
you could not mean more to me.
This is a lovely post Athena. Your details are so vivid. "I press down, watch my nail turn deep pink, knuckle bleach white, the water below the surface flex. Still the ice refuses to crack." I love the tone with which you write. And the sentiment behind this is very moving. You are doing a great job of weaving the feelings about the tree and Kole in ways that feel authentic and truly moving.
ReplyDeleteI second that! This was a lovely post, covering such a short moment in time but so deep in description.
ReplyDeleteIf it had been an ash, it would have been quite vulnerable to the emerald ash borer. Are you familiar with this pest? They're munching their way through ash trees all over the east, my own included. These unique things are so for a reason, and how sad it might have been to see it falter.
I second that! This was a lovely post, covering such a short moment in time but so deep in description.
ReplyDeleteIf it had been an ash, it would have been quite vulnerable to the emerald ash borer. Are you familiar with this pest? They're munching their way through ash trees all over the east, my own included. These unique things are so for a reason, and how sad it might have been to see it falter.
I appreciate how much this tree has come to mean to you, even after you realize it is not what you thought it was. It has become, through your interaction with it, both precious and symbolic.
ReplyDeleteI love that your tree is this common sturdy thing, but through your eyes she's transformed into a place of comfort that symbolizes not only resilience, but love after loss.
ReplyDeleteLovely post, Athena. I really like your opening paragraph where you describe the base of the tree as a palm with four fingers. "Despite having three mangled digits, the palm still cradles its cargo." This is such a great line and holds such meaning for this tree and your sentiment toward it.
ReplyDeleteLovely post, Athena. I really like your opening paragraph where you describe the base of the tree as a palm with four fingers. "Despite having three mangled digits, the palm still cradles its cargo." This is such a great line and holds such meaning for this tree and your sentiment toward it.
ReplyDelete