by Saya Grimm
Gazing at the leafless tree,
My thoughts drift gently,
Like whispers shifted by a breeze,
To delicate memory.
A girl, though she has forgotten this, sits by the small window in the attic. The window is dirty, and a few loose cobwebs cross in front of it, but she doesn’t mind. She is squeezed behind an old canapĂ© and an even older folding screen that smells strongly of mildew. Small particles of dust float around her, as undisturbed by her presence as she is by theirs. There is an odd thing about her. Though we know she is there, what she looks like and what she wears seems to lie beyond description. It is as if any eye that lands on her may see her for a moment before immediately forgetting her when it moves on. She does, however, radiate a gentleness, and a certain contentment at this moment, perhaps an air of contemplation as well. Her gaze is fixed on a tree in the garden, her entire attention captivated and enthralled by it. The tree is a plum tree, currently nearing the end of its bloom. There is a soft breeze blowing outside that rustles the trees’ leaves and seems to deftly pluck petals from the white blossoms. Sometimes they travel upwards, so close to the window the girl is sitting at, that if there was not a glass pane in the way, she could reach out and catch them in her hand. What is going on in her mind we can only speculate, but it might go a little like this:
‘There it is. The tree. I wonder if it is cold or perhaps lonely. It looks old, maybe it has secrets it could share. But who could understand the ramblings of an old tree? Perhaps I could. I have seen it before. I have watched it grow, its leaves turn green, its blossoms bloom and then fall off. I have watched its dark shape in winter, a brave sentry in the ice and snow. Perhaps we could be friends, this tree and I. As it has watched the house, so too have I watched it and taken note of its loyalty to its spot in the garden, to this house, to me. Now the petals fall again, they seem both happy and sad; a visible memory here and already drifting away on the winds of time. I suppose we might already be friends. Dear tree of mine, thank you for being here. My constant, my anchor, keeper of my heart. Perhaps one day I can sit below your gnarled branches, and you can whisper to me all the knowledge you have amassed over the years. I would very much enjoy this. Let us hold this as a gentle promise between two old friends, in confidence and security.’
The girl still sits watching the tree. Some time has passed, though we can only know this from the passing of the sun and the slowly declining number of petals still attached to their blossoms. We may wonder at the scene we find ourselves watching. Why are we here? Well, this is the story about this girl, though she does not remember that she is, and a small collection of her experiences. Perhaps it is appropriate to call this a marker of her existence and, in extension, a marker of the existence of this house. There are many houses like this, but this house in particular has her, and so we shall learn about her.
© Saya Grimm 2024-08-29