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Initials.
The tree outside my house is covered in initials; some are clearly romantic, Joe and Mary, Alfred and Milly, and many, many others.
My wife, too, drew our names on the side of the tree nearest the sidewalk.
They used to say that if you cut your own couple's names onto the tree, it would guarantee fidelity and happiness. It seemed true for years ... and certainly, it appears to have been true for some of them.
The other day I was looking at the tree and realized there was a kind of dividing line.
Nobody used the east side of the tree; nor did they use the west. On either of those sides, the only visible names are from the north and south.
And then I got to thinking ... maybe the old saying was true.
The couples on the north side had all faced unusual hardships.
Miscarriage of triplets
House burning down while asleep
Sinkholes under the house.
Weird things.
But the result of each of those hardships had kept those couples together.
I know one couple from the north side of the tree that has been together fifty years.
Now, the south side has even more signatures; perhaps because it is closer to the sidewalk.
The couples who are are the south side all seem to have had a more blessed union.
Right out of school, each started out unusually gifted.
An insurance check from a death in the family which paid for a new home
Being late for flights which all mysteriously exploded in mid-air
And yet, no matter how many long a couple had been together, within two or three years of documenting their love on the tree, the couples each split.
Every single one.
.
.
.
I miss my wife.
They called her Spike.
She stood two feet tall, mostly skin and bones, and strode into the orphanage all moxy and laughter. The other children took an instant liking to her, though few showed it; they had learned that over emotion could get you hurt.
On the day-bed, all the other children simply hopped onto the shared mattress. Not the new girl; she would run and jump, as if spiking some invisible volleyball ... and fall, hard. She never got a blood nose ... but she never made it onto the bed unassisted either.
The first time someone called her Spike, she didn't respond; nobody else had ever told her she was clumsy and she never asked; here, you got named quick, and once the name stuck, she loved it - it gave her a kind of home.
Every one of us, no matter how jaded, warmed up to Spike within two months.
She seemed to tap into that little bit of joy you never let go.
And she wouldn't
Softly, the sparrow rose and fell. Buffeted by torential rain, twisted air, and harsh heat, the sparrow seemed ill-suited for its task. Still, it flew.
Through marsh, desert, forest, storm, the sparrow held true to its course.
Multiple times it gave up; and, moments before some event would have caused it's demise, the sparrow found renewed resolve and rejoined the sky.
Its only true solace was the clouds.
Amidst danger, discomfort, and disillusionment, the clouds were quiet boxes of peace; where every corner appeared to hold a harsh beak or crisp death, the sparrow found the clouds were a home.
A short home, to be sure - too small to simply soar as hawks and eagles, the sparrow could hold its course and hover for only moments ... but moments it cherished!
Sitting on the chair, waves of crisp water crash, gently assaulting your toes.
It is hard to stay in the now ... memories of other beaches, other times, draw attention.
Discussions of weird things with good friends fill your ears.
You miss the coffee, the late-night discussions.
You miss the warm embraces, the hints of scents as new friends greet old.
You experience a montage of other beaches; and this beach - it ties them all together.
You smile now, realizing that each had their moment to savor, their reason for resonation.
And you accept and caress them; for they have drawn you to this now and this time.
And you breathe.
cadence, cadence, splashing waves
simple droplets become waves
crashing, splashing, on the reef,
cadence, crisp and salty sweet
cadence, cadence, eventide
time, defined by water's ride
crashing, craving, waves of life
cadence of survival's knife
cadence, cadence, crisp and sweet
back and forth the waves all meet
crashing, high and low, the tides
cadence soothes and heat subsides
cadence, cadence, short and long
cacophany of creature song
crashing, as the days go by
cadence kept and ne'er dry
It was, at first, a small step; the depression of footprint in sand wa barely noticable.
The second and third were deeper; sand moved away from the boot; treads were visible.
The fourth through tenth were deeper still and further apart; sand moved all about and between the prints.
The eleventh and last was the deepest; sounds that had previously accommodated each step fell to a hush.
Seconds that felt like hours dragged on as a temporary bird flew in parabolic flight.
And LANDED!
Mark and Alice walked, matches held high, as they made their way deeper into the forest.
The animals had long since stopped their chirping and the two children had visited this quiet area in the forest often enough that they were no longer unnerved by the silence; it comforted them.
As the path, comprised of tramplings and rocks of earlier visits, led to the clearing, the two looked at one another. With silent determination, they broke through the clearing.
Seven torches lay evenly placed around a central depression. Bits of metal, twine, plastic, and a whole assortment of debris lay scattered outside of the torches; within the confines of the torches, evenly cut grass lay low and a small breeze blew the grass leaves back and forth.
Halfway from the entrance to the clearing, Mark and Alice split; each walked toward a torch stand and lit their torch. The moment Alice finished lighting her torch the circle became complete; a gentle rumbling from beneath the depression seemed to cause the grass to vibrate. Bits of dirt, gravel, and rocks were vibrated away from the center of the depression.
Alice backed away from her torch; Mark turned toward her and caught her as she nudged toward where he stood.
"What is happening," asked Alice, as her eyes looked into Mark's.
"I don't know," replied Mark, as he held her closer. "We can but wait. The ancient left us scrolls and today is the day we finally completed the last step. They promised answers."
Marine ranks in two by two formation jogged in semi-peramublatory style as Mason shot photographs of passing clouds. His photographs were cut quite short when the soldier in front of him stopped abruptly.
As his camera dropped, his posture conveyed an ache to catch the device before it landed.
And landed it did; film, plastic camera case, and lens split into smaller bits.
Sergant Johnson, voice careening with dozens of years of recruit correction, proceeded to dress Mason up and down. The last Mason saw of the camera was bits of film under Johnson's boot.
Lashing out, the frumius wallaby rode itself to death; finding only solace in the quiet calm of the forest, its dreams of hope and anger were swallowed up.
Mason, simplest of the farmers, found the wallaby the following day; covered in bits of black insects and curiously blue frimbles, it had a disctive odor. Recognizing the odor, Mason, ran from the corpse. It was too late. His family, too recognizing the frothing and angry gesticulating, had only one recourse - and Mason was forever bound to live outside the confines of his village.
Deeply saddened, Mason began his quest; head held high, Mason left off his family, his lineage, his culture, and began anew.
And his children, ignoring the village rules, followed.