The Reason Trees

The Reason Trees

By Venita V. Johnson

When will we get a day free of rain so that I may plant my blue-cherried eggs? When I plant eggs on a clear day, by the next day, the Shaman says they will grow into Reason Trees. Then people will be able to find out the reason for their problems and come to their own conclusions on what to do. The Shaman says that conclusions do not grow on trees.

My only problem is that it has rained for thirty-three days. The Shaman says that soon there will be a day without rain, which will be my chance. I will finally know why Delilah left me this cryptic note: “Dear Henry, while I love you dearly, I am leaving. Trust me, and I have my reasons.”

I also have friends who want to know the reason for things. I know a philosopher desperate to know the reason why the universe came to be. I have an older brother, Steven, who wants to know what he did to deserve falling into a depression.

Tomorrow will be the first day of Spring. Spring hasn’t been Spring since over a century ago. Spring is Winter, Winter is Fall, Fall is Summer, and Summer is Spring.

The following morning my back aches. After putting a little bit of salve along my spine, the strangest sensation runs through me. The kind of feeling that comes when a lot of people are talking in a cafeteria, and then, for no apparent reason, all the chatter stops simultaneously.

I tighten my back and then release. I pick up no sound, not even faint window taps. After 34 days of rain, the skies are gray, but the clouds are thin. A whiff of air contains no moisture. Delilah, her back turned to me, would say, "It's just like you, Henry. As if it wants to do something, but abruptly stops and retreats." I'd feel her smile rise at that moment but not reach her eyes. It would be enough for me to go behind her, lift her and watch her knees curl while she breaks into laughter.

I grab all thirty of my blue-cherried eggs and drive to the big field by my old aunt’s home. I lay all the eggs and carefully cover each. I complete the Shaman’s planting routine.

When I pat the soil for the last time, my breathing constricts as I hold my chest. A plethora of images go in out of my consciousness, some dreams, some nightmares, and some memories. They all blend into one multi-colored rubber-band ball.

As much as two hours may have passed, I don’t know.

I wake up from the nap with an uneasy feeling in my hands. I look down at the planted seeds, and nothing has grown. Twenty-three and a half hours pass; the night has no moon. I think about my hands. When trying to move them, I feel a scratchy object beneath them. A green bud slips through my fingers. And then another one and then another. In a matter of seconds, over fifty buds appear. Twenty-four hours pass. Where is the tree? I look up at the morning sun and shield my eyes from the glare.

Several days go by, and the buds grow into branches that hold the leaves by their throat. When it rains again, they continue to grow despite the Shaman saying they would die. Every day they grow a little bit more than the day before. We stay hopeful that one day it will grow to be the towering trees promised to us because we, each of us, have our reasons.