the tree of me

Last night, my dreams were encased in a cloak of darkness, and I could not make them out. Yet when I awoke this morning, the sun gleamed beyond my window just the same, and the vicious pounding of my heart was eased by the familiarity of its glow.

I began to think of the ways in which I have lived under the illuminance of the shining sun, the mornings spent and loved and cherished without even thinking, mornings long gone. I think of the way that one day, my heart will long for the swinging green trees I see before my eyes every morning, wishing to once again mark their sway. Nostalgia will convince me of all the time I spent with them like they were my own brothers and sisters, my fingers dancing through the leaves, my hands on the bark, feeling their rough, coarse trunks, dancing with them; it will create a whole new world within my mind, and I will cave to it every time.

I think of the old tree in my grandmother’s yard all the time, a blurry memory of a giant oaken thing, heaving with the wind, alive and almost breathing. It seemed all-encompassing, larger than life. It draped over my child body, shielding me with shade and shadow, protecting me from the world beyond its loom. I’ll never know what kind of tree it was, or if it still stands. All I can do is dredge up memories of the way it felt to sit beneath, my head pressed against the bark, my fingers curling around its leaves.

How much longer do I have in these bones before the leaves fall away from the tree of me, before my roots are upended, torn from the ground? I know the time will fly past, and soon I will be looking out of a different window all alone, isolated and bleary-eyed, thinking of what was and what could have been, sketching romanticized realities from the faded past, contemplating all things that may have mattered more than I realized they would after all.

These moments, all moments, come and go. The future has already occurred, and we are already gone. We find excuses for meaning as life unravels, as we trample through time, for we are left with little other choice. I can’t make much sense of it, having always been trapped in one world or another, too caught up to think, too stopped from seeing.

Fear rules me, and fate hangs heavy on my heart. I am young; still, I am hopelessly lost in the backdrop of my life. I cannot look at old pictures without tears coming to my eyes. I cannot look at my dog without thinking of that final, fatal day. I cannot look in the mirror without cursing my own face, my own body, my own mind. My branches stay still, statuesque. I am stagnant, yet still, I suffer.

Even so, amongst the suffering of humankind comes fleeting moments of a joy so foreign it feels like a whirlwind, like heaven on earth when it shows. When I realized I could, one day, shed the parts of myself I could never love, I cried for days on end. I thought the rotted ends of my leaves defined my being, my soul. When I looked at myself, all I could see was dead and disgusting, crumbling to bits; all I could smell was decay. My face stayed flush and wet like a leaf in the rain, weathering the storm in silence.

What I could not see was that my roots were firm, buried and solid in the soil of my love. I am so much more than just the leaves I wish would fall.

What will it all mean when the day comes and I am taken away? What will be made of everything untold? I have taken the coward’s way out at every turn, and I cannot stop now; it is not in my nature. Still, though I cannot stop the storm or the silence, I can endure. I can weather the storms in my own body better than I could before. For this, I wonder if pride deserves to settle in my soul.

I always thought I desired knowledge above all else. Now, staring out at my past and present and future alike, I am afraid of knowing, of feeling, of living, of dying. I cower in the face of my own existence. I shrink myself, even knowing fate will come all the same. But endure I do, and I shall.