Short-Short Story Contest Finalist

The Tree

By Margaret Graw

         Skye, it’s what the mother called the child who ran toward the ruby blossom that swayed in the breeze; the plump leaves folded back perfectly to reveal the ginger flower.  The woman’s white blonde hair matched the girls; their smiles mirror reflections.  A giggle, a finger pointing, a skip and a hop, and the little girl reached out, touched a petal.  

         I’d stood on that land, in that field, for many seasons, since I was small like the blue field flowers that now tickle my feet.  I was alone at first, and grew openly, spread my branches up and out after each rainfall.  It was a free place.  The low flowers and grasses spread away from my roots, reaching toward the far edges.   As I grew taller I could see they reached out past the curve of land.  My leaves grew larger, too.  Deep green, flat and shiny, as big as a man’s hand.  Yes I see the men who come to plant and pick in the far field.  No trees grow there.  Only plants that grow in straight rows, plucked out if they stray.

         I noticed a new plant one day, growing at my feet.  She had my attention from the first shoot.  Her leaves were narrow, plump, and reached high.  Twice a year she produced the most amazing blossom, bright red and dangerous.  She draws in yellow finches, hummingbirds, birds whose names I don’t know.   I don’t blame the birds for leaving my branches to visit her.  I sweep my branches low to protect her when the monsoon comes.  I will my leaves to scatter around her and protect her fragile roots.  My roots on the sunset side, those closest to her, draw more water - feed her and encourage her.  We alone in that field stand high.  I am hers.  She is mine.

The days are easy and warm, but the nights are dark and lonely.  When the wind blows, my branches hum her to sleep.  On quiet nights I point out the stars to her and the face of the moon.  In the distance the ocean shushes against the shore bringing news of other lands, other trees, other flowers.  I think she hears this too.

         The woman had worked in the field that morning; the girl had played under a sunshade.  Until that morning I’d only seen men in the field.  The woman walked slowly, her hands on her hips.  She let the straw sunhat slip back and hang against her back.  The girl ran toward us, so small, so quick, like a cat.   

         The sun was straight overhead and the flower in a gentle tilt from the heat.  The child touched a single petal with one small finger and turned back to her mother.  Then so quickly two small hands wound around the neck of the blossom, snapped it, and pulled.  Skye swung the blossom in the air and ran a circle around me.  I stood still, but I saw the blood.