Betrothed

I’ve gotten pretty good at playing by the rules. At bending my branches to fit inside the space that was provided for me to grow into. As twigs snapped off and leaves wilted trying to reach for sunshine my mother patted me on the back saying, “It’s perfect. You’ve got a firm foundation, that’s all I want for you.”

And this was okay, for a long time. Summer caressed me with warmth and Autumn blew new things my way but by Winter I was running on fumes. My box was so tight and my branches held so little foliage that my roots froze solid underneath, warping and cracking, bringing discourse and famine. Come Spring, the rain made mud that seeped into my new cracks, stinging as the stench of decay rose to greet my sweet mother’s nostrils. Worms and pests swarmed the roots she had protected so faithfully. I looked up at her once in exasperation and asked her why she wanted me to sit in this box forever. She responded gently. “I want you to learn to love this box. I want you to want to be there.” So I made art that she’d like and hung it on my walls. I sang songs that were safe and learned to dance again. I learned to adore my box for a while. The place that kept me neat, kept me preserved, the picture of holy and set apart. I learned to trim new leaves before they budded and tuck them in an envelope that sat beneath my bed because they were safest there where no one could see. And she was so happy not to be able to see any cracks on my surface anymore. And she was so pleased at the way I’d decorated my box for her. I was riddled by exhaustion impaired by disease but nothing I produced could let that slip through.

Winter rolled around again and I was working ceaselessly to sand down my edges as they split and splintered. A knock on the door of my box and the smiling face of my mother. Attached to her side was a tree that looked nothing like mine. This tree had roots that spread for miles, a thick intimidating core that then stopped. No branches. No leaves. A stump? I thought. No. This tree had never been sabotaged with the thought to grow. This tree was my end goal all these years. Standing there examining this artless force of nature I was expected to worship, I felt myself wanting to shatter the box by it’s skeleton once and for all. My mother smiled a golden smile and said, “you’re ready, this is for you.” And I thought back to the envelope of dried leaves underneath my bed, I glanced at the pile of twigs that lined the edges of my box, the one’s I’d learned to hate. The box I learned to love.

My mother beamed as she tried to shove this stump-like creature across my tattered roots. And I received him with the hollow arms I had left while he made himself at home. Meeting my mothers eyes I swallowed the lump in my throat and my chest ached that familiar ache. “Thank you so much.” I mustered. And the door was shut.