The Roots In The Ground

I’m twelve again, running downstairs and into the dirt driveway yelling wait. Dad blows me a kiss from the passenger side. Elan revs the engine and waves, excited about his first drive on I-91. I can feel the timing is wrong like I felt the calf would be stillborn the summer I was ten. Mama kisses the top of my head, says they’ll be back before lunch.

Elan is my tree; I am his shadow. I slump at the base of the big oak in my nightgown. Its rough bark digs into my back through the thin fabric. The cold of fallen leaves and earth rises up my spine. I scan the road.

Mama comes out with a blanket and a bowl of oatmeal with extra syrup. When she goes back inside, I let Dad’s favorite hunting dog scoop out the oatmeal with his slobbery tongue.

The sound of the ringing phone carries through the windows, then endless screaming. I can’t move.

Big men lower the caskets into the ground.

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For twenty-five years, I dreamed of revving engines and screaming, woke to a mental fog that lasted all day. The past three nights I’ve slept dreamlessly, then awakened to downpours and a feeling of dread.

This morning, I stir oats into boiling water, step away for the syrup. The rain stops. Outside, debris swirls in the puddles. The sky greens. A gale shakes the house, rattling the windows and the floor, reverberating up my body. Another gust. In slow motion, the big oak topples, crashes through the roof, lands where I stood.

I once read you can uproot a tree and replant it in a new location under the right conditions. Could the shadow of an uprooted tree also survive somewhere new?