Counting Trees For my parents, my move to college was like a knife to the heart. I’m the last child of three, so my move signified their official transformation into empty nesters. Tears have been more common around my mother than words. It wasn’t like I was going out of the country like my brother. I was only moving four hours up the state. It was only logical. This school offered the most financial aid, if the world worked differently I would be going to New Hampshire. Although, my mom might not make it if I was out of state. When my mom and I took off on the awaited drive up to the school, I had made a playlist of upbeat songs and my mom had brought tissues. It had taken a week for my father to finish his tune up on my truck, not that I minded, it was older than me after all. Driving away from my hometown, where I had lived my entire life so far, I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. I glanced out the window as we merged onto the interstate. The trees blurred past, impossible to differentiate from each other as the car picked up speed slowly, but I already knew there were five hundred and eighty-one trees between the interstate and my house. There would be about six hundred more trees before my mom had used all of the tissues she had packed in her purse. Growing up, I never saw my mother cry. Back when I was six or seven, she always had a warm smile and smelled like the kitchen, where she spent most of her time. Our kitchen was one of the biggest rooms in our house. It had an island that I could never reach without my brother lifting me and a pantry that was perfect for hide and seek. It was off-limits when the stove was on because once my sister tried to touch the swirly lights on it and my mom got really mad. When I lived there, most of the days mixed
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prose
ALLIE WILSON
