Splintered

When I stretch my neck obsessively, there’s a lingering hope that one day, the knots will finally pop out of me. I can picture them as they finally take form of their own and float away… over joyous as a rush of adrenaline propels them into the mother cosmos, the dark purples cradling them gently, pulling at their strands until they unwind into their fullest potential. Until then, the pain weighted upon my shoulders is nothing but a constant reminder of the moments that put them there.

I’ve come to notice, whenever I walk in the woods, that the lengthy beings there carry them too. Each burl within them reflects a moment in time: some may be evidence of near destruction, of drought, of insects, of illness, of stress. Yet how miraculous it is that the cycle of greens and browns continues. They reach. They ground. The wind continues their dance. They grow. They die. They give birth again.

When I meet with these beings to lament, I figure they must whisper to each other. How silly it must be to hear this insignificant small thing speak of what they know so well.

At least, I say to them, you’re able to show you’ve recovered. With each passing year, your rings will eat  those points of pain until they’re nothing but a mark upon your skin! And mine? Oh, mine fester. Like grotesque gashes that bleed. They morph and ooze and mark themselves upon my person. The beings listen. You’ll see it, I say to the trees. You’ll see it when you look closely.

Often, a rustling silence is my only reply.