Silences

Silences

‘Unloved’ it is a sign taped to my daughter, Jess’ door. Her way of protesting her punishment, early bedtime at 8:00, she can’t seem to remember she has homework until I tell her it’s time to head in.
“Good night,” I bend down to kiss her.
Her lips form a pout, her hazel eyes are naturally sad; the face is meant to melt me, but my heart is granite.
“I love you,” I whisper.
“I hate you,” she covers her head with her blanket and turns away.
* * *
“Think of Jessica,” my mother says over the phone, “I’m not that far away, you could come up on weekends.”
My mother and I have fought this battle for two years. She moved from Houston when my father died and feels my daughter would have a better life with her in Brenham.
“Think of a small town,” she says. “People are friendly, their lives are solid. I could give her morals.”
It is a stab that wounds, renders me defenseless.
“Jess’ father and I loved each other,” I flail back.
‘She is an expression of our love,’ Jess’ father used to say. ‘We don’t need legalities, our love and independence are all that matter. For almost a year, we lived by those clichés, but time and responsibilities replaced them with ‘I’m too young to be tied down, and ‘I haven’t had time to get my feet wet.’.
Mr. Ashford comes over every Wednesday with a movie. I provide coffee and pastries. Today, he brings a rose. I always thought romance was frivolous and silly, but I find myself unable to discard the flower. My fingers stroke each petal, absorbing the softness. I revel in the scent. It is not a greenhouse rose and is exuding a seductive fragrance.
Mr. Ashford is 73 and sends me passionate love letters.
“We are soul mates,” he once told me. “If only I had been born forty years later.”
Although morbid, we do share a connection, both discovered the murder of a friend. Mine was his college roommate. He, his lover. For me it has been 12 years. At first I could remember nothing, but now the details are vivid; even the shade of my friend's pink nail polish. Mr. Ashford is the only person I’ve ever been able to talk to about that night; the only person I feel could understand. His discovery was 27 years ago, he says the memories will never fade, that I must live with them.
“You look exceptionally sad, today,” he says as we settle on the couch and start the DVD player.
“Just guilt for punishing, Jess. She can rip my heart with one look."
“Good,” he says. “It means that you love her.”
A fit man, Mr. Ashford looks twenty years younger than his age. I have thought of introducing him to my mother, but don’t think she would appreciate him.
***
Jess wakes up harder than I do. I help her into a sitting position and lay out her clothes, a navy skirt and nautical sweater.

“These are awful,” I hear her shriek as I dress for work.
By the time I am ready for work, Jess is back under the covers stealing a few more minutes of rest; she is wearing jeans and a vest, crumpling.
“Brush your teeth,” I tell her.
“Not before breakfast,” she croaks.
“Then fix your hair.”
Jess drags herself out of bed and goes into the bathroom
“I look like a dork,” she says in front of the mirror. “Look at all these stupid pimples”
“You’re a beautiful girl,” I say as I stand behind her applying my makeup, lipstick and mascara; we are running late.
***
Jess hits the fifth grade doors as the second bell rings. I’m ten minutes late to work, my boss notices. I smile and say good morning.
* * *
When I come home, Jess is on the floor roughhousing with the dog. A beagle named Rebel. Her books are spread across the couch. An empty bag of microwave popcorn and a can of soda decorate my end table.
“Hello,” I say as I step out of my heels.
Jess looks up out of habit then quickly drops her head and nuzzles the dog, her dark curls covering her face.
“Homework done?”
Jess looks up with a grin, displaying a row of broad, white teeth. Her voice is silent.
***
“Don’t you ever clean?” My mother hesitates in the doorway.
“I just walked in,” I explain. “Please, have a seat.”
“I don’t have time,” she says. “It’s your father’s birthday.”
Since my father’s funeral, I’ve avoided the cemetery. My mother often tells me I neglect him. I want to explain that I spent time with him when he was alive, that I held his hand when he died and think of him every time I play with Jess.
“I don’t think he misses my visits now,” I respond.
***
My mother refuses to ride in my car, a ‘92 Passat wagon, I drive her Continental.
“They have radar on this highway,” my mother says.
My reputation for owning a lead foot is notorious in the family. I slow down.
***
I carry the box of new flowers and spade to my father’s grave. My mother and Jess walk hand-in-hand in front of me.
“Hey cool,” Jess says when she sees the grave. It has two dwarf cedar trees framing the headstone. A small wire fence encloses a bed of periwinkles.
“They have rules against gardens,” My mother says as she bends down and begins upsetting a piece of earth. “But they’ll have to face me if they touch this.”
I move to the foot of the grave to get a better view of the headstone. A double stone engraved with doves and flowers, it also displays my mother’s name and date of birth next to my father’s biography.

“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Every Saturday,” my mother says.
“How long has the headstone been in place?”
“A few months after he died.”
I watch my mother, her small frame bent, carefully sifting the soil through her fingers then gently patting it until the flowers are standing on their own. I think of them, my mother and father, he teasing her, stealing a kiss, she pushing him away, her coy smile betraying her. ‘I love you,’ I want to say. ‘I miss you and care about you.’ I want to hug her, have her say she loves me.
“Do you need any help?” It is all my tongue can conjure.
* * *
My mother agrees to stay for dinner, vegetable soup and cornbread. There is no dining area in my house, and I set up a card table in the middle of the kitchen, covering it with a linen table cloth, decorating it with Ashford’s vased rose.
“What’s the common denominator for 8 and 6?” Jess begs the answer from my mother in the living room.
“I’ll sit with you, but I won’t give you the answers.” My mother admonishes.
“24.” Jess squeals.
“You know this place wouldn’t be so bad if you put some work and a little paint into it.” My mother’s eyes scan the kitchen as she sits at the table.
“Jess and I are happy,” I say.
“Yes,” she says.
***
It’s almost 10:00 when my mother leaves. I offer her my bed for the night but she declines.
“It’s been nice,” she says.
“Nice,” I repeat. “Listen,” my voice stops her. “Mr. Ashford, a friend, and I watch movies on Wednesdays. I serve coffee and something to eat. We could change it to a weekend if you’d be interested.”
“I really don’t like movies.” My mother says, “But maybe I could pick up Jessica every once in awhile, help her with her homework.”
“That would be good,” I say.
I remain in the doorway until I see her car successfully onto the road.
“Bedtime,” I turn and hug Jess.
“Gaw, Mom,” she says. “You’re so mean.”

The Air Show

The Air Show

Steering with his arms high and elbows slightly outward was awkward and necessary for Girard. His daughter, Cydney, had fallen asleep across the seat of his pickup, propping her feet in his lap. It had been a long day for them, they’d gotten up at six to get the morning chores out of the way so they could spend the day at Ellington Air Force Base where the Blue Angels were performing. Girard was surprised, happy, but surprised that Cydney had wanted to go. Playing father to a teenaged girl was something very new to him.

During the red lights, Girard studied his daughter. Her cheeks had been lashed red by the sun, beads of sweat dotted her face and matted down the curls around her forehead. Her peppermint striped shirt crumpled about her small torso, and her innocent face rested on the broken arm rest, catching the breeze from the open window on the passenger side of the cab.

Girard smiled when he caught himself moving with the rhythm on the radio, from one of Cydney’s stations. Everytime he turned a corner, the melting ice and soda cans sloshed in the ice chest just behind the cab.

It had been a good day, one of discovery for Girard, he found out his daughter didn’t eat hot dogs, absolutely no red meat and soft drinks were taboo. She liked mountain water, strawberry popsicles, but not the simple kind he had as a kid, the kind made from real bits of fruit and fruit juices. It seemed the only things they had in common were they liked popcorn unbuttered and slightly salted and held a fantasy to take off in an F-14 and fly like maniacs into the sunset.

The road was dark ahead of them. The temperature dropped, and the rain hit the truck’s cracked windshield. Cydney’s toes wiggled as the drops pelted her legs.

“Where are we?” Her voice was groggy.

“Half way home.”

Cydney pushed back her hair, a long white crease from where she had been lying marred her cheek. ‘I’m thirsty.” She smacked her lips in demonstation.

“Stick your tongue out the window, there’ll be plenty of water.”

“Gross,” Cydney wrinkled her face. “Couldn’t we stop at a convenience store or a gas station.”

* * *

The road was barely visible from behind the water thrust at them. The wind pushed the rain into the cab of the truck, and tossed the truck across the slick highway. The truck’s old suspension maoned while Girard struggled to keep it tight to the lane. Both, Cydney and Girard rolled their windows almost shut, leaving only a small crack for the air to come in. Cydney turned up the radio and scooted closer to her father.

“Buckle,” he nodded toward the open seat belt next to her. His eyes moved between her and the road until he saw her securely latched in.

Rain streamed down the center of the windshield and collected in a channel that ran off the side. “When you were little, the rain used to frighten you, and I’d have to sing to you.” His right wheel caught a pot hole, and they tossed in their seats. “After awhile, you’d calm down. You said the rain moved like little ants.”

“And you’d sing the Ants go Marching,” Cydney held her hand close to her mouth. The ends of her fingers were wet where she had been chewing them. “I remember, but I’m not a little girl.”

“No,” Girard shrugged. “But it’s the way I remember you.”

* * *

The rest of the ride home was noisy but silent. The radio continued to blast, the rain droned around them, the ice chest sloshed, but the only human noises were an occasional sigh or readjustment of position.

Girard wondered what Cydney thought of this new situation, if she was happy, if she had any apprehensions.

“Tomorrow, we’ll see about buying a comforter and maybe some curtains, anything to covert the old storage room into a girl’s room.

“Whatever,” Cydney continued watching the rain, but crouched even closer to Girard.

* * *

Beverly Stag had worn khaki shorts accented by a bright orange tank top with white diamonds stretching across her bust line. The straps had been loose and fallen from her shoulder, exposing her pink and orange bra straps. Beverly had seems about twenty pounds thinner than when she and Girard had been married.

“It’s time you took care of Cydney,” she said handing Girard a duffle of Cydney’s clothing. “I’ve done it for fifteen years.” Beverly stood firm, her tone had been matter-of-fact and emotionless. “I’ve thought about this a long time. I won’t change my mind so don’t make me try.”

Girard glanced past Beverly where a teenaged girl, all arms and legs with crazy blonde curls stood. She had worn a wrinkled denim skirt and pink button down blouse. Somewhat, she had resembled the chubby-faced child he’d known, but in many ways, she had been nothing like his memory. Her face had been too thin, her hair too curly and long.

“This is Cydney, your daughter.”

Cydney had stood bunched against the side of his house, twirling the ends of her hair, chewing gum and looking downward.

It had been Sunday morning, early. The sun hadn’t even peeked. The morning dew had still clung to the windows. Girard had hesitated at the doorway, unsure of what move would be appropriate. He wanted to invite them inside, to discuss the matter, but Beverly had made up her mind, and Girard had known Beverly, nothing could change her mind. Girard had also known, he wasn’t Cydney’s father. Birthright, X-chromosome donator, but not a father.

“It wasn’t an easy decision. I’ve thought almost a year about this.” Beverly’s fingers fidgeted with a brass key ring in the shape of an ‘S’. Her Reebok covered feet alternately tapped against the gravel driveway. “I’ve discussed this with Cydney. It’s for the best.”

* * *

The rain brought the first cold front of the season, and Girard left his front door open, closing the glassed-screen door, but opening the panels. A thick scent of gardenias blew in from the bushes that decorated the bricked-in flower bed that ran the front perimeter of his house. Cydney sat cross-legged on the floor, in front of an open window so that the breeze moved in her curls. She cut pictures out of magazines, of women in fancy dresses.

Girard stood over her shoulder as she carefully moved the scissors along the line of a woman in a black evening gown. “You hope to be a model?”

“No,” Cydney’s voice was embarrassed and sarcastic, and she hid her had behind her hair. “It’s a wish book, Mom and I use to make them.”

The word ‘mom’ made Girard go rigid. The situation bother him, but Cydney showed no signs of emotion. “Do you miss her?”

“Who?” Cydney continued her cutting.

“Beverly?”

Cydney stacked the pictures she had cut then shut the magazines. Her long legs pushed her body brom the floor. “I never really think of her. Excuse me, please.” She brushed the back of her legs with her free hand and left the room.

* * *

“She knows a lot about you, at least what I know,” Beverly had said. She had stood under the garage light, had tucked her dish-water brown hair behind her ears, and had crossed and uncrossed her spindly legs. “She knows you are an executive for an investment firm. I called your office to make sure you were still there. I checked to see if you were married, you weren’t.” Beverly had a wad of gum in her mouth that had muffled her words and diminished the emphasis she had tried to give them.

“This is enough,” Girard had wanted time to make some sort of sense out of what was happening.

“I’ll walk right now if you don’t hear me out,” Beverly had started moving for the driveway.

Girard had looked hard at her, concentrating on her steel gray eyes and tight mouth. He had realized she was serious. This had surprised him, it still surprised him. Beverly had been the responsible one, the one who took care of business, who never let things get out of hand. The type of woman he would trust his own child with.

* * *

Cydney took responsibility with ease. For dinner, she peeled the potatoes and carrost, carefully checking for missed eyes.

“Parenchyma,” Cydney told him. “It’s the kind of cells where sugars are stored. It’s why a potato is a starch.”

“What’s your favorite subject ? In school, I mean,” Girard stood over the Chambers range he’s bought in a garage sale. A yellow and blue flame surrounded the bottom of the cast-iron skillet he was searing a chuck roast in.

Cydney shrugged her shoulders while concentrating on a potato. “Math.”

“Math?”

“It’s what I’m best in,” Cydney picked up another potato, a large one that barely fit in her hand.

“Do you make good grades?” Girard wiped his hands on a dish towel he kept near the stove, then stole a raw snap bean sitting in a colander in the sink.

“A’s and B’s, mostly A’s.”

He watched in fascination as Cydney worked the paring knife through the potato, first down the center, toward her palm, then through the middle, horizontally, toward her fingers. He started to correct her, but decided against it. Instead, he continued to talk, but turned back to the stove and the pot roast. “I thawed a couple of pieces of chicken for you. Would it be all right if I put it in the post with the roast?”

“I’ll cook it in foil, on the side. Don’t worry about me, I can take care of myself.”

Girard shook his head. “I don’t have any excuses for not seeing you. Your mother got remarried, I got busy,” He heard Cydney’s chair drag along the slate floor, heard the pad of her barefeet leave the room. When he turned around, he could see Cydney staring out the window, at the rain. The wooden sill wore a slick coating of water.

“It’s getting cold out there, maybe you should put on some long pants.”

Cydney stood in a small puddle of rain water. Her legs were covered with goose bumps. She shut the window, wiped her feet on th half circle of rug in front of the sink and moved to the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

“You don’t have to,” Girard said. “I just meant it as a suggestion, if you were cold.” His voice dropped off with the last few words.

* * *

Beverly hadn’t even kissed Cydney goodbye. Cydney hadn’t made any moves toward her mother, only had watched as Beverly’s new Malibu backed out of the driveway. Girard had stood dumb-founded, Cydney had simply picked up her duffle bag, tucker her flower-covered pillow under her arm and cuddled a stuffed pug, he’d be introduced to as Steve.

“I don’t have any place for you to sleep,” Girard had stood in the middle of the living room looking between the sofa and the hallway. Imagining the clothes piled in his room, and the tools and guns filling the corners of the spare room.

Cydney had simply lowered the bag and stood cuddling the dog. Her gold-green eyes had patiently awaited her next instruction.

“What did she do to you?” Girard wanted to pull the words back in.

Cydney took a deep breath and looked to the ceiling.

Girard’s eyes joined hers. “That brown spot is from a leak, just a few weeks ago.” He pointed to an elliptical stain just above the sofa. “But you don’t have to worry, there’s a new roof.”

* * *

The air show had been three days after Cydney arrived. When she saw a commercial about the Blue Angels, she began to talk to him.

“Billy and I went to the air show once. Billy got me interested in planes. They’re so cool.” Cydney had sat cross-legged in front of the television. Her flowered pillow had been tossed next to her, so she could stretch during the movie. Steve, the dog, had rested comfortably in her lap. “I mean so much power, those monster engines but their structure has to be so delicate. Sort of a dichotomy.” Cydney had tossed her arms in excitement. It had been the first signs of animation Girard had seen in her.

“Billy?” Girard had stretched across the sofa, sat drinking a coke.

“My boyfriend,” Cydney had smiled, then frowned. “My ex-boyfriend, I guess.”

“You broke up?” Girard had stopped immediately. He had felt he was getting into territory he hadn’t been sure he could handle. Wasn’t sure he wanted to.

“We,” Cydney had hesitated and grabbed Steve. “I moved.”

“If that’s all, maybe you could have him over.” Girard had repositioned himself on the sofa several times. He lifted the can and took a swig. On the metal trunk that doubled as his coffee table, was a coffee ring.

“I don’t want to,” Cydney had said and turned back to the television, but clutches Shannon awfully hard against her chest.

* * *

Cydney waited until Girard was finished in the kitchen before preparing dinner. Girard watched from the kitchen table as she skinned the two breasts and cut the small pockets of fat from the meat. He folded paper towels into triangles, to complete the set table.

“Tomorrow, I’ll have to see about enrolling you in school.” The window was half-way open, and the breeze blew up the ends of the napkins. What grade?”

“I’m a junior,” She carefully crunched the ends of the foil around a stack of raw carrots and potatoes surrounding a piece of chicken meat.

He watched her balance the two packages with her left hand while she opened the oven with her right, felt the rush of heat the oven tossed out. Her forearm brushed against the top of the oven. She shook her arms and started rinsing the beans that sat in the colander.

“Let me see that,” Girard guided her closer to the kitchen sink, and the window to get a better view. Her arms were long and narrow, her hands were cold, and her finger nails bitten beneath the skin line. Rain drops splattered across her arms, and a small welt was rising on her translucent skin.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” He looked into her stoic face. Beneath her hair, he saw the chubby girl face he remembered.

“A little,” she answered.

He was expecting her to force a smile, but she didn’t. When he reached for the towel to dry her arm, he noticed a tear on her cheek. It had been hidden behind a shadow from her hair.

“There’s an airplane museum,” he said. “It’s not very far. Maybe next weekend we’ll go. Maybe you might think of inviting Billy.”

Tree Stood Along

Tree Stood Alone



Tree stood alone. The stars were gone, the sky was gone, almost every leaf had gone. Tree sighed. Then, a gentle wind rustled his leaves. The quick movements tickled him. It was moments like these that tree remembered he was still alive. Tree looked out into the blank and empty world. He wished he was not alone, but as long as he could remember, the times people had been by, Tree had been wounded. His trunk bore every scar. Tree was silent. The world was desolate, and Tree wished for a different existence than he had ever known

One day, Owl landed on one of Tree’s limbs. The motion made Tree shudder.

“What's wrong?” Owl slowly turned his head to look at tree.

“I do not trust you,” Tree told Owl.

“But I am wise, the wisest bird ever,” Owl said. "To not trust me is to not trust nature itself.”

Tree's limb wilted just slightly. Yes, it was true that Owl was known for his wisdom, but
nature had changed, for she had removed the stars and sky from around tree. She had left his world white and colorless except for a few green leaves on his limbs.

“I cannot trust you, Owl,” Tree finally replied.

But Owl closed his eyes. “I am too weary Tree for your doubts, but soon I will leave, just as soon as I have a good rest.”

“Is it night?” Tree asked Owl. For the sky was always empty and white, Tree could no longer tell the day from night, winter from summer.

“No,” said Owl. “Look upon the sun.”

“Sun?” Tree's limbs shuddered more. “There is no sun.”

“Above you,” Owl whispered.

“There is nothing above me,” Tree replied. “Nothing around me. For you, Owl are the first person I have spoken to since I can remember.”

Owl murmured then closed his eyes for the final time. For Owl, it was bedtime. For Tree, just another moment in eternity.

Tree cracked a limb, hoping to frighten Owl away, but Owl was too deep in his sleep to notice. Tree shed another leaf.

Tree moved the tips of his roots. If only he could move, Owl would awaken, Owl would move, Owl might fall. Tree sighed. Trees do not move. Tree knew this better than any tree for he had been in this ground since the beginning of time. It had been fun at first, Tree sprouting, spreading his limbs, tiny pink blossoms sprinkling about his foliage, his soft fragrance drifting throughout the atmosphere. Birds sang songs about him, bees hummed his name upon the wind.

Tree had been straight and tall and beautiful. His shade stretched for nearly an acre. People would come from all around just to sit in Tree’s shade. Tree had been proud.

It had been man who had first injured Tree, digging his knife deep into Tree’s bark. But Tree had endured the pain, his bark bearing the initials, MS. Then, it was a storm, lightening splitting his trunk. Tree thought he might die, but slowly, his limbs began to sprout leaves again.

Hours later, Owl opened his eyes. “Wake up Tree,” Owl whispered, “For it is night. Time for me to find some dinner.”

“Night?” Tree scoffed. “There is no day, there is no night.”

“It is with sorrow, I leave you Tree, for you cannot see the stars that sparkle in the darkness, cannot feel the comforting warmth of the sun in the day. Open your eyes, Tree, so that you may live again as you once had.”

With that, Owl flew away. Tree watched the brown animal soar through the plain white space, until he too disappeared. Tree could still feel where Owl had slept. His claws had clutched Tree’s limb, piercing it slightly. Owl spoke of day and night, of stars and sunlight. Tree strained to see past the whiteness, but there was nothing. Tree shed a leaf. He watched as the delicate green shape floated effortlessly to the ground. For this leaf, Tree blamed Owl.

“And how many leaves have I now? With so few, what good are my leaves to me or anyone?”

Tree stared out into the emptiness. He was almost asleep when HMMMMMMM! The sound of Bee whizzed by his ear.

“I have heard of you, Tree” Bee said. His bright striped body covered in beads of pollen. “ I want to dance in your flowers,” Bee told him.

“Flowers?” Tree laughed. “There have been no flowers for ages.”

Bee circled Tree. “Look beyond yourself,” Bee told him. “There are the crimson poppies, the yellow daffodils, the sapphire blankets of blue bonnets sprawling to your feet.”

Tree looked down, there was only whiteness.

“You have a vivid imagination, Bee.” Tree told him. “Hum around my trunk, but be careful not to disturb my leaves.”

Quickly, Bee disappeared but Tree could hear him, could feel the vibration of Bee flitting around his leaves.

“Begone!” Tree grumbled.

Bee hummed once more then quickly departed. Two more leaves fell from Tree.

“Doomed,” Tree lamented. “My days in desolation are quickly numbered.”

And Tree shed his first tear in centuries. Life in desolation, Tree knew, was better than ceasing to exist.

One day, Rabbit came upon Tree. “I wish to huddle in the warmth of your massive roots,” Rabbit said.

“No,” Tree said, “For I have lost more than one leaf for every animal that has come upon me. Favor you, and I may lose every leaf I have possessed.”

“It is past time for you to shed your leaves,” Rabbit replied.

“A flippant reply,” Tree said, “By a trifling animal. Do not tally here long, for there is no burrow to be found near me. Look around me, there is nothing but white. Emptiness. If you nestle among my roots, I will lose all of my leaves then nothing will exist.”

“Yes,” Rabbit replied, “It is white and desolate, for it is winter. The ground is covered with the purest of snows, the animals have taken to hollows for winter. But look above you, Tree, for such an expanse of blue, azure and endless fills the sky. Nothing, you say, but you need only look beyond where you stand to see there is everything.”

Tree grumbled, “I am not mobile.”

“Yes,” said Rabbit, “And fortunate you are, every day you know where you will live and eat; animals must constantly move or they will die of thirst or hunger. “

Tree grumbled more, and as Rabbit approached the interior of Tree’s roots, Tree broke his longest limb, hoping to discourage Rabbit before he caused more harm to Tree. But Rabbit had been too quick for Tree and settled in for a long winter’s nap. And the limb that Tree tossed contained not one, nor two but five of his most precious green leaves.

Rabbit slept for a very long time. Tree could hear Rabbit’s heart beat, it was very slow. At times, Rabbit shivered. Tree concentrated hard, for Tree knew that he could generate heat for Rabbit, he just had to try. When Rabbit finally awakened, he had forgotten where he was.

“What a night,” Rabbit yawned.

“Night?” Tree scoffed. “You were asleep for centuries”

“Centuries?” Rabbit giggled. “I remember it was winter, late in winter, and you did not wish me to rest among your roots. Were you harmed,Tree?”

“A branch fell.” Tree replied. “My largest branch with five of my few leaves attached.”

“I remember,” Rabbit said. “But that limb did not fall, you broke it to keep me from resting in your roots. Look out, Tree. Do you not see? Spring is here. Trees are budding.”

Tree looked, but there was nothing. “I’m sorry Rabbit, but you are mistaken. I am glad you had a good rest, but you seem to still be dreaming.”

“I am sad for you, Tree,” Rabbit spoke sincerely as he pulled his head and body through the maze of massive roots. “I hope that you can see again soon, Tree, for there is a splendid wonderment about the life that surrounds you. Thank you again for letting me rest in your warmth, for it was a very bitter winter.”

“Winter, summer,” Tree laughed. “They do not exist for me. My world has no color, no temperature, no beauty but no pain.”

“How very comfortable you must be,” Rabbit spoke.

“Yes, yes,” Tree answered. “Comfortable and alive.”

“Look up and out,” Rabbit said. “For you are missing a beautiful life. I must go now, Tree, for I am terribly hungry. I must find carrots and my favorite beets. I will visit you again, Tree. By then, I hope you will have opened yourself to the wonders that surround you.”

“Eat, eat,” Tree called after Rabbit who was already quite a distance away. It was not long before Rabbit too disappeared into the blankness.

Tree sat and squinted and popped open his eyes wide. Still there was nothing but white before him. Owl spoke of the sun and stars, Bee of poppies and blue bonnets, and Rabbit of azure skies.

“When I close my eyes, I can remember such things. And yes, Rabbit was right, the visions were truly beautiful.” Tree closed his eyes for a very long time, reflecting on things he had seen in the past.

One day when his eyes were closed, Tree felt a pain. Tree had not felt pain since the world went white. “Owl and Bee and Rabbit were wrong,” Tree said to himself. “With the stars and the sun, with flowers and skies, there is pain. I will open my eyes,” Tree stated, “Never to close them again.”

And Tree stood, silently, with his eyes wide open. Still, the pain continued. “This is terrible,” Tree lamented. “I cannot see, there is nothing but white, but now I must bear this miserable pain” And Tree fell into sadness.

It seemed like eternity that Tree felt the pain, then one day it stopped. “I am dead,” Tree spoke. “The world is blank, and the pain is gone”.

Just then, Owl swooped past him and clutched his sharp claws around his limb.

“You think I had forgotten you, Tree?” Owl smiled.

“I thought perhaps, that I was dead, “ Tree spoke with great caution.

“Dead?” Owl laughed. “Tree, you are anything but dead.”

“But I had a terrible pain, then it stopped,” Tree explained.

“And why,” Owl asked, “Do you think the pain stopped?”

“I cannot think anything other than I had died.”

“Or that some great wound had healed.” Owl spoke with great authority. “Look around Tree and tell me what you see.”

“Nothing,” Tree closed his eyes. “It was when I began to remember the flowers and the stars and moon that the pain began.”

“And when you stopped remembering?” Owl questioned him.

“The pain continued,” Tree answered.

“Then perhaps the pain was not caused by the memories,” Owl replied. “Perhaps there was some other cause for your pain.”

“Perhaps,” Tree said. But Tree did not believe there was any other cause for his pain. For now, Tree agreed with Owl, for he had no other explanation.

“I will sit in your limbs,” Owl spoke softly. “ So that I may rest and so that you shall know that you are indeed still alive.”

“You would do that for me?” Tree asked.

“I would certainly do that for you or for any friend,” Owl assured him.

Tree sighed. For the first time in a very long time, Tree felt a slight comfort somewhere emanating from deep inside.

“You may close your eyes if you wish, Tree.” Owl said. “I will sit here all day and all night”.

Tree hesitated, then slowly closed his eyes. He had nothing more than Owl to see and the white that had surrounded him since nature decided to leave him.

Tree’s eyes were not closed long before he heard HMMMMM! Bee had returned

“It has been two seasons,” Bee said. “ But the pollen from you was ancient, unmodified by man. I was sent to seek more pollen from your leaves. Will you permit me?”

Tree opened his eyes. “You cost me two leaves,” Tree grumbled.

“But your pollen made the sweetest of honeys.” Bee answered.

Tree was tired. Owl was sitting on his limb, finally he told Bee that he could collect the pollen he needed.

Bee was grateful and promised to be careful of his leaves. Bee tickled Tree as he hummed in Tree’s ears and rustled through his leaves.

“I shall return,” Bee told him as he finished. “When it is time for more pollen or sooner if you would permit me.”

Tree sighed. “Yes,” Tree told him, “For you remind me that I am still alive.“

“Good then,” Bee replied. “I will return in the morning.”

Tree took a deep breath of air. It was pure and clean. “Yes,” Tree said to himself, “I am indeed still alive.”

Before Bee could return, Rabbit came by.

“How is your world?” Rabbit asked Tree.

“Still white and empty,” Tree replied. “So empty I thought perhaps I had died, but Bee and Owl here show me my presumptions were all wrong. “

Rabbit smiled. “I would like to nest my family in your roots.. You have such a large base, so warm in the winter, I know my family would be safe with you.”

Tree grimaced. “Look upon my branches,” Tree said. “I have but one or two leaves left. I am dying, “ Tree said.

Rabbit slid under his roots and soon shouted. “Tree, Tree, you must open your eyes and see what has happened.”

Rabbit had crawled in the area where his pain had suddenly begun and suddenly stopped. “See, see what nature has given you?”

“Another scar?” Tree asked.

“Perhaps,” Rabbit replied but so much more. “Please, focus and try to see beyond the white.”

And Tree squinted and focused and concentrated in the area where Rabbit stood and the pain had been. At first everything was blurry, but then, in the crook of one of his largest roots, he saw it. A new branch, rising from his trunk, attached to him. Tree was growing, again. Bright green and succulent leaves were sprouting from his very base.

“What, what is this?” Tree exuded. “More leaves than I have sprouted since the world went white.”

Rabbit smiled. “ When I bring my family, we will nestle upon the other side, so as not to disturb your new growth. Can you see beyond the white now? “

And Tree struggled to see more. He blinked and suddenly the sky was blue, azure and pure, and the yellow of the sun almost blinded him.

“It is day!” Tree shouted.

“Yes,” Owl rejoiced. “And at your feet, can you see?”

Again, the colors blurred but there was red and blue and yellow and green upon the ground.

“There is color,” Tree remarked gleefully. “ Indistinct yet vivid.”

Owl and Rabbit squealed with delight. “You are alive, Tree. Rejoice with us.”

And within a day, Tree and Owl, Bee and Rabbit’s family were all together. Owl making a nest in Tree’s strongest limb, Bee building a new hive under the new shade Tree was promising to provide. They all danced from dawn until dusk. And when sun was setting and the moon was rising, Tree saw it. The first star of the night, the violet of the setting sun, the orange glow of the rising moon, and Tree was happy. Tree was alive, and Tree was surrounded by friends.

The Lace Panel & Red Cowboy Hat

The Lace Panel

And they rocked, this man and his wife, Katarina. "Katia," he called her. for 52 years, before their daughter was born, they sat on this porch, Their rockers moving in independent yet compatible rhythms. Katia rocked with her small hands winding bobbins of whit cotton thread around a wooden frame, creating lace. Delicate lace. Intricate designs more beautiful than those of a spider's web.

Often, since he had retired, the man looked at his hands. His thick fingers callused from the tools, hammers he wielded most of his life. How useless they seemed to him when he watched his Katia.

And Katia smiled. It was a pleasant, kind smile. But that was his Katia, pleasant and kind and good.

"Sing, Katia," he said.

Katia looked at him, her blue eyes questioning.

"Sing for me," his voice grew a regal tone as his hands covered his heart.

And Katia began in a small voice.

"Like a mouse you squeak, roar like a lion."

Katia drew in a breath and increased her volume.

"No, Katia, like this,' and his voice rose above hers until she stopped. "You are too good to sing with me?"

"No, fredryk, you are too good for me." Katia's hands never ceased winding the threads.

Fredryk smiled, but he was only partially content, though he continued to rock.

Soon, he became bored.

"Katia," he pushed himself from his chair, "Will you dance with me?" He extended his hand.

"There is no music."

"We need no music."

"Yes, Fredryk, we do." Katia looked to him, her hands continuing their task. "I do not hold a rhythm within me as you do."

Fredryk's chest puffed slightly, and he returned to his chair.

As they sat, Katia continued and more lace cells developed; each one complimenting the other. Fredryk studied the lace panel that was now forming, each time he saw it, it was more beautiful.

"How long have you worked on this one?"

"Three days," Katia responded.

"And who will it be for? Our daughter? Our grandson and his wife?" Fredryk's voice poked at her. "Who will it be for this time?"

Katia set the bobbins and frame on a small oak table next to the rocker. A table Fredryk had built. And she looked at her husband, his forehead furrowed, his eyes wounded, and her eyes grew soft.

"For you, Fredryk," she told him.

Fredryk's cheeks grew hot, "I do not use lace."

"It is for you, Fredryk."

Fredryk scowled.

"Make a net of it. The holes are small, and it is strong. It would hold the weight of a great fish."

Katia retrieved a pair of scissors from her sewing box when Fredryk stopped her.

"If the panel is for me, I should choose how it is to be used."

Katia agreed.

"Then make it large," he said. "Large enough to cover a table."

"What kind of table?"

"A dining table. A rectangular table. One with pawed legs and a beveled top. And it will be made from oak. Thick oak." Fredryk gaited from the room and returned with paper and pencil and began to sketch a table.

@Texas Tales


Ambush
You locked me in the closet and the more I fight to get out the more you laugh.

You got me this time.

Just wait, your clothes are in the closet, too.

@ Texas Tales




The Red Cowboy Hat

You look ridiculous in that hat,
The way you wear it tilted on your head,
And the color red, all wrong.
You never would let me wear that hat.
I didn't speak to you for a whole week.

It wasn't until Hermann our lizard died that you crossed the street.
You told me you were sorry,
And you offered to let me wear your cowboy hat.
I said I didn't want to,
that the hat looked ridiculous
And the color red, it was all wrong.