RROOTS ROOTS OOTS

I walked to my car as the cold bit against my face. The night sky ripped the saturation off of the world like a great, black band aid. As the wind tore at my coat, I heard it: something whispered in the night. The gloomy trees spoke to me secret words I should not have heard. A name I did not know I owned; an invitation.

As I ventured into the thicket, roots pulled at my ankles. I felt shadows looming over me. I slipped—into the night, into the darkness—and joined them.

At home on this little street, you stood and watched; silent, patient, still. Oh, to know what in that eyeless sight you saw! Seed to sapling; sapling to giant. What memories did you keep closed tight within you?

How many have you seen come and go? How many have you seen plant themselves here and, once grown, fall? How many have passed you by just as I have?

Beginnings and endings, successes and failures. How quietly you died. And when you did, you took it all with you. Quiet now; all quiet.

Old baseball cards

Dusty, worthless comics

A cockroach or two

Maybe mouse feces

Leftover insulation

Family photos

Capturing the past

Wedding dresses

Stained tuxedos

A shattered mirror

Reflecting broken rays of light

Old writing

A glimpse into the past