'Forever'

by

L. Marie Wood

T

he old, splintering tree bent in the wind. Carly could see it from her window, could almost feel the arch of its brittle frame. It was dying, had been for years. It was hollowed out and ant-infested, broken-limbed and faded. Frail. Sickly. It looked as though it had been bleached; its bark was weathered beyond rejuvenation. The tree wouldn’t see the next season.
Unless she did something.
Carly closed the blinds and made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, thinking all the while of the afternoons she’d wiled away beneath the shade of that tree. That tree which used to have countless branches and lush green foliage. That tree beneath which she had her first kiss; in which she had carved hers and her beau’s initials; next to which she had buried her husband and lover of forty years. She glanced at it from the kitchen window before reaching into the microwave. So old. So weary. Much like she felt on that overcast morning. Like she had felt since Gary died.

‘C.R. and G.S. Forever’, she had carved into the then healthy bark of the tree. Forever. But Gary was with the tree now. He was letting it die like he had, letting it suffer. Like he had. And Carly was alone in an empty house.

Carly walked barefoot and coatless along the grass toward the tree, ignoring the biting wind and stiff blades as they poked at the bottoms of her feet. She made it to the tree in exactly 12 paces, just like always. She and Gary had counted the footfalls in his last days while she led him out to the aging tree, the friend she’d kept all her life. She set up a chair by the tree and served Gary tea in the waning light of day. He’d fall asleep there, as the sun set and cast shadows over his face. Carly would wake Gary and move him inside once his catheter spilled the contents of his bladder onto the rough bark of the aground roots. She used to smile as they trudged back to the house, Gary as unaware of his unbagged catheter as he was of the sounds the tree made. Sounds of appreciation. Of drinking and slurping.

On that overcast day, Carly heard the cry of frustration the tree emitted as if it were the sound of a baby crying in her arms. As she approached, she could feel the pain, the need, in her stomach as if the hunger were her own. Standing in front of the tree was like standing aside Gary’s deathbed, the sour smell of disease emanating from every pore, every orifice.

Carly fingered the worn, jagged letters carved in the tree’s lackluster bark and inhaled deeply, ignoring the stench of decay.

Forever.

Smiling, Carly uncapped the mug and let the steam mix with the wind. The aroma was pungent, sharp. She swirled the mixture of blood drawn from her wrists and that which had been taken from Gary’s body and frozen for a later date. For a time just like that one. She had warmed
the cocktail to a palatable temperature before braving the cold to feed her ailing friend. As she poured it into the ground surrounding the withering roots, she could almost feel the blood going down her throat, coating the passage in a velvety stream, as the tree drank.
* * * * * (c) Jane Mackenzie, All Rights Reserved

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