by Carli Woodyear
The whispers she’d heard echo across the Louisiana soil had seen so much tree fall. Yet her trees stood, roots tangling, surrounding a quiet, loving house. And she was proud.
In those days, she housed a family and they lived their days on top of her, growing gardens and sprouting herbs. She was content with them, for they tread softly, and their pretty little girl played in her mud and spoke to her weeping willows. She, in return, made rain for the girl to dance in and made the night less black for The Mother, who was afraid of the dark.
It was this way for a decade: the dog licking grass, the transparent night sky lighting paths, the Willow bowing in on itself from growing too strong. There were fights, though, of course there were. There were days when the dog dug a hole, or The Father took an axe to a snake just to leave its rotting skin to fester on the Earth. But the fights— the fights were nothing compared to the sun and the wind— the fights were temporary. They were small; they were bound; they were nothing. All that mattered, all that she could really feel, were those infantile fingers reaching out to trace patterns on her blades of grass.
But, eventually, the little girl grew less little. The Woman could sense that those artful, twiggy arms would soon grow into clumsy branches. And she was right. The girl became busy. Busy reading, busy shopping, busy watching TV. She didn’t care that The Woman rinsed the earth with rain for her to sing. In fact, she stayed indoors, curled up with her book, and looked out of the windows with disgust, never opening the door.