Life Cycles ~ MARY KESSLER

Life Cycles

MARY KESSLER

I dreamed of a little girl who loved all things disregarded in the world, the things that people don’t appreciate until they realize they’re gone. She loved emojis, playing hide and seek with the salps in the ocean, handwritten notes on the endpaper of books, the photo she stole of her parents dancing to “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton, the scent of the Old Spice Swagger deodorant embedded into the fibers of her oversized, half given/half stolen, navy quarter zip, the commonly forgotten tails drawn on “t”s, the inconsistent consistency of metronomes, family portraits on holiday cards, the final page of Harold and the Purple Crayon, the sound of stable breaths. We met when I was a sapling, and she was a child. She always tried to present herself as older than she was, but the Bruins shirt that could pass as a dress, her brother’s blue cargo shorts and colorblock swim trunks that went down to her crocs, her smile with teeth loose enough to fall out with a gust of wind, and curls no longer than the length of her eyelashes, told a different story. As the youngest child, it was going to be a while before she grew into her hand-me-downs, and part of her wanted her own clothes. Every day, she came outside and went through her step by step routine: she looked for the smallest leaf and enclosed it between her thumb and index finger, feeling for dry patches. She wanted to make sure it was receiving the sunlight and water it deserved. And when she put it up to the sun, she counted every cell until she lost track. She named each insect in the grooves of my bark and checked in on them each day, convinced they returned for her. She liked to see the homes they made themselves under the protection of my branches. Though she knew my branches were sturdy, she never climbed them: she said she was afraid of heights, but she knew and I knew that it was because if she fell, nobody would hear. She always leaned up in the same spot against my trunk, between the two roots that molded perfectly around her body, just sitting and breathing. I valued her breathing as much as she did: her exhales are what expanded my growth rings, keeping my core dry. Much like I liked to be dry, the girl did too; she was afraid of storms. Though many would tell her to do otherwise, she trusted her instincts and sat beneath me for protection. I was afraid of storms just as she was, but I never told her. I did my job and kept her dry and absorbed the shock of the lightning. They left scars inside my trunk, but she couldn’t see them. She said the sound of the thunder reminded her of the roar of her brother’s screaming. From childhood into her teens, whenever he lost his temper, she came to me for security just as she did during storms because under the roof of her home, nobody was there to wipe her tears, so she used my leaves as tissues and my soil absorbed her stream of tears. My growth rings weren’t so large during rainy seasons. When the girl turned eighteen, her house was put up for sale. By the last time she visited before leaving, she no longer fit between the mold of my roots. I worried for her future without me in it. I worried that just like she couldn’t handle the storms of her brother, other disasters would come her way. Only this time, she wouldn’t have me to protect her. And though I’d miss her when she left, I had hoped I wouldn’t see her again. I promised her that I would look after the families of insects resting in my bark, and keep my trunk upright for her if she ever needed somewhere to sit and breathe. After we said our goodbyes, I spent years missing the girl, but I was grateful for every day I didn’t see her. As long as I knew she was okay, I’d be okay. And as long as her eyes were dry,

my growth flourished. The hardest days for me were the rainy days. I feared more than ever that she would return to me just like she used to. I counted the days that passed by the number of my leaves on the ground; they were always my smallest leaves, no longer having the girl to move them into the sunlight. But as time went on, the drier and sunnier the seasons became, and the fewer leaves fell. I was happiest on breezy days. The wind was what parted my branches, allowing for sunlight to reach every single leaf, even the smallest ones. I knew it was the girl, and I was happy for her.

By the time the girl was in her twenties, her old house had still not sold yet. And though I had been alone all this time, I was okay because I knew the girl wasn’t alone. On what had been the sunniest day of the year, a minivan with boxes hanging out of the trunk pulled up to the house. I watched a toddler with little curls, just like ones the girl had, reaching to place the “Sold” sticker across the sign in front of her new house, but she couldn’t reach it. So she signaled to someone with boxes in his arms stacked higher than their head, and when they placed them down for her, a man stood there. He had sweat dripping down his face and was wearing a navy quarter zip that was identical to the one that the girl had all those years ago. The man rolled up his sleeves and lifted the toddler up to the sign as she slapped the sticker on. As he placed her down, she tugged at the man’s arm, and pointed at me with a smile on her face. The man smiled back at her, nodded, and nudged her towards me. She turned her back to me and extended her arm out as if she was waiting for someone to hold her hand. And I watched a woman with curls that rested below her shoulders raise her pointer finger over her mouth and take the toddler’s hand as they began to walk towards me. When they arrived, the woman knelt down, facing the toddler. She then unlinked their fingers and placed her hand on the back of the toddler’s hand and then closed it for her. The woman then shut her eyes and took a deep breath. When she could no longer hold it, she exhaled, lifting one of her fingers for every second of air released. Once she had all five fingers up, she signaled for the toddler to do the same. By the time the toddler mastered it, their breaths were synced and consistent. When they opened their eyes, they chuckled, and a tear formed in the woman’s eye. So the toddler walked up to me, climbed the first of my branches, and reached for the closest leaf she could grab. She then signaled for the woman to pick her up. So the woman walked over, lifted the toddler up, and held her tight. The toddler then brushed the leaf below the woman’s eye, catching her tears before they could fall. And the woman then loosened her grip, walked right up to me, lowered the toddler into the mold between my roots, and walked away. And the toddler stayed in my arms and breathed.