My hand goes to my chest trying to pull out the anguish within. I just want to reach out and touch one of the branches or sit within the root-formed circle that seems just for me. But this unknown heart hurt is too much to bear, and I cannot be here any longer, even if some deeper force inside my soul begs me to stay.
I turn away regretfully, needing relief from the foreign emotions working through me. The farther I get from the tree, the less my heart aches. It’s a strange occurrence I’ve never experienced before. How can something pull me in so strongly only to repel my whole being the moment I get close? It was heartbreak in its raw form, and I had only felt it once before.
What I knew of love, I learned from my mother. I knew what loss was because of her, too. And the feeling I just felt at this tree is so similar to the feeling my heart went through when she passed. An unbearable ache in my chest that I reckon could crack my whole body in half. But there was an angry twist to this ache, making it different somehow. Perhaps, a different form of love being broken.
Not far off from the hickory is a large oak. Standing on its own and seeming to take up more land than is necessary. It sits perched, leaning to one side, as if it can’t believe it is only just now being noticed. As I walk towards it, I see a massive limb has fallen on one side. It looks fresh, making me think back to the loud crash I heard a few days earlier when the storm raged its hardest. It must have been this poor oak making itself known as part of it smashed to the ground from the strike.
I’ve always loved oaks. They carry a certain truth about them that speaks out through their branches. The way they twist and turn and reach out to keep searching for what is beyond them. And the darkness that comes with all that truth lingers on this oak in the deep crevices of its bark. I think of the word written underneath its illustration in that beautiful tattered book.Oath. Howvery fitting.
I pass the fallen limb and notice in its destruction it has also snapped a branch off the neighboring tree. When one falls from grace in such a dramatic manner, they’re bound to take down a few others along the way. I guess the same goes for trees.
Turning toward the house, I walk to the small pond in the back, where the willow stands in all her nurturing glory. Already I feel lighter making my way to the tree that my mother always loved. I float past tall and straight pines and curvy, ropey cypress trees. I all but run toward the welcoming willow, letting the dangling curtain-like leaves brush upon my skin.
As a kid, I would swing from willow branches, having so much trust that they would never let me fall. I sit down under its enormous trunk, closing my eyes and staying still beneath the tree facing toward the sun. The soft rays bleed a soothing warmth into my essence. Accepted is how I feel here. Not just at this tree, but at the house, at this property. Well, now apart from the hickory.
I can only imagine how I will take to the town. Will I have the same silent knowing of a life that belonged to me there? My thoughts turn toward the jade ring. A broken but whole artistry about it. Perhaps it will not even fit—that is, if I ever find the nerve to try it on. And where is the ring marked Opal? And why are both in such a unique box?
I try to settle my mind and relax a bit into the trunk of the tree. Words are whispered in the breeze. Faint and soft like a mourning dove’s gentle coo.A choice was made, so you could live.And then later the whisper changes to a louder hum as if someone were right in my ear.Listen, my love. He is here. Guard your heart, for he does not possess one, and he will take yours at all costs.
13
TOWN
RACINE 1978
Acar rumbling down the drive is the first thing I hear after a long silence. I must have drifted off under the comfort of the old willow. Ry’s vehicle comes into focus down the driveway. He probably can’t see me from here, leaving me no choice but to rise and head in his direction.
A knot forms in my stomach, of nerves and worry, but as I get farther from the willow and closer to the car, it dissipates. My connection to the trees has never felt more prominent than it does here. Only here though, I find they meld together, and I can’t tell which feelings actually belong to me—and which do not. It is a disconcerting feeling, and perhaps my uncle felt something similar.
Ry is out of the car now. The closer I get, the worry that wrapped itself around my spine turns into increasing thrill. I greet him with a mischievous smile as he puts one arm on the top of the door.
One should not look the way he does. His muscles tense along his arms as he looks me over, a glint of a sparkle in his eye that I don’t fail to notice. If he is anything like me, yesterday’s almost events are replaying in his head.
“Hi…I was just out walking the property. I can see why my uncle never left. These trees…they hold a sort of…magic.” I pause after I say thesewords because a small truth stirs in my heart. Magic is definitely what I feel here. “The storm did a bit of damage, though. Nothing too serious.” Ry tenses at the last statement.
“Which trees were damaged?” He asks in an anxious, rushed tone.
“A large oak sadly. It took part of a cherry limb with it,” I answer, wondering why he seems so worked up. A flash of irritation rolling through his eyes, which he closes briefly, saying his next words as calmly as he can.
“I will be happy to check them out later.” He pauses, seeming to gain more composure before he adds, “Would you like to get lunch in town? I know a place.”
I nod, looking forward to seeing a bit of the town. Lollie and Ash will be here before I know it, and Lollie will want me to scope out any dives. She is always the life of the party. As for me, I hope to find some antique shops. The history is this area is vast in richness, and I want to know all there is to be known.
But, to be honest, at this moment I am more intrigued with the tall brooding man that I’m about to get in the car with. We drive down the dirt road in silence, looking over at him periodically. Knowing what I feel seems to hum around the small space of this car, so he must feel it, too.
From this view, I get a good look at his profile. His eyebrows are thick and furrowed as if in deep thought. His lashes are longer than mine, with a straight nose. And oh, his lips. His bottom one full and I wonder what it might feel like on mine. His attention turns toward me as my eyes make their way up to his. Once I see I’ve been caught, I glance away.
“Don’t turn your head. I find I enjoy your eyes on me.” He says with a voice dripping with cocky confidence. I am so taken aback by his comment that I can only stare at him. Lost in the sea of his beauty and the storm brewing in his eyes that mimics the one forming in my chest, growing in waves, moving lower and lower within me.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare. I just got caught in thought,” I stutter. A poor excuse, I know.
“Don’t ever apologize for admiring. I do the same to you,” he replies, and I’m yet again intrigued with his level of confidence.
A hint of a smirk graces those plump, kissable lips.Shit.My thoughts may betray me, but at least I can hold them together on my tongue. A tongue that wonders how his would taste against mine. And with that thought, I know I am supremely fucked. I blush all the way into town.
We eventually make it to our destination, and I focus on looking out the window hoping to get my mind clear of all current thoughts about the man next to me. The beauty of these historic houses does the trick.
Gracing the streets are tall, ethereal buildings. Two-story townhouses with pillars built in front that hold together two levels of porches. Some houses have a garden conjoined to them, separated by cast-iron railings; some are well kept, and others seem to be a mass of rose brambles. Brick stones make up the road, making the drive seem from a simpler era. I think one I would have liked very much.
