Mother Tree

Long shadows cast over the forest hiking trail like bony limbs. There was an hour left until dark, two hours until Cynthia’s husband expected her home. But she couldn’t turn around yet, not after her dramatics, not yet soothed by the wind in her hair. It’s Lila’s bath time, she thought. Henry doesn’t know the eczema cream stings her. Cynthia paused and took out her phone. Her thumb hovered over Henry’s contact as her other hand absentmindedly pulled a strand of hair to her lips. She cringed at the sourness of baby spit-up coating it, then flipped it over her shoulder. Leaves rustled behind her. Cynthia scanned the forest, but no one was there. Ferns bobbed in the breeze. Two squirrels skittered up the trunk of a golden-crowned aspen. These thin trees choked the forest—white trunks scarred with eyes from having dropped the limbs that no longer served them. Cynthia shuddered, put her phone away and continued on. She hadn’t meant to make Henry feel so inadequate when she called a few minutes ago and spewed out those commands. Being home alone with the baby most of the time, Cynthia often leaked milk before Lila cried. She also felt like she was being sucked dry. I should be enjoying this time alone. The feuding squirrels faded, and the forest fell quiet again. No birds chirped. No leaves crackled. The stretch of aspen eyes before her made her pulse crescendo in her ears, made her chest ache with regret. Cynthia ran. Waning sunlight strobed through the trees in the corner of her eye like the lightbulb that had flickered above her during her embarrassing tantrum earlier that day. She had hollered about never having a moment to herself, so Henry took Lila from her and sent Cynthia out for this supposed restorative hike. All Cynthia had wanted was the freedom of empty arms, a break from the endless nursing cycle. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard. This need for Cynthia to separate from her baby left her rotted and hollowed like the mushroom-feasted logs before her, feeling like she wasn’t enough. In one of those decaying logs, Cynthia spotted a bright white flower opening in the last glimmer of the sun. She slowed, stepped off the trail toward it. Crouching, she smiled at the odd sight, a showstopper garden lily growing wild in the woods. She wanted to pluck it for Lila, but its center was odd, bluish. Anthers trembled, and so did she as the stigma split. Sickeningly sweet rot filled her nose. Inside the ovary, an eye blinked back. She gasped, fell to the dirt, heart pounding, wind gusting with a familiar, undulating cry. Her breasts stung with the let-down of her milk. “Lila?!” Cynthia jumped to her feet, listened for her baby’s cry, but heard nothing. The flower at her feet was just a flower. The forest was all shadows, only a faint blue glow left in the sky. The darkness had fallen so fast. She had to get back, refreshed or not, but where was the trail? It had been only a few steps from the lily. Cynthia shone her phone light all around but couldn’t find the flower. It was right there. Her own voice whispered Lila’s name between the trees. Fumbling with her phone, Cynthia called Henry, but there was no service. Oh, God. What if I can’t find my way back? Trees creaked around her, the trunks crooked and twisted as if they had turned their good eyes toward her, as if they judged her. What kind of mother wants to be away from her child? Who was she without the warm bundle clinging to her? What use was her skin, her breasts, her hips if not to hold, feed, and soothe? Having soaked through her bra and shirt, Cynthia’s breasts ached for Lila to feed. Her knee tweaked and ground with her next step, hip sunk into the socket. Cynthia yelped in pain. The trees yelped back. My baby. Lila needs me. A shuffling, a shivering, a cascade of golden leaves fell. Trees crowded her. Their good eyes open, watching. “I-I just needed a break!” Cynthia cried. Ijustneededabreak. The trees hissed. Another step, more pain, another shout whispered back. Something flaked off Cynthia’s skin. Her body shifted down. Her feet grew roots. “I need to go home,” she panted. Ineedtogohome. Cynthia couldn’t move. Before her, a tree dropped its limbs, crown fell back. Cracks formed in the trunk, split into legs, arms. Wood chipped away to her own round head, her perky nose and hooded eyes. All the while, the roots sucked Cynthia hollow. “My baby,” Cynthia said. “My baby,” Tree-Cynthia said. “Lila needs me,” they said together. One body hardened, grew ridges and lichen across the skin, lips stuck open but silent. The other softened, bark dissolved away to flesh, a rejuvenated face. No bags under her eyes, no elevens between her brows, black hair free of grays. Tree-Cynthia broke free of her roots to the sound of snapping bones and ran. Cynthia filled with rot, crumbled to dirt and dust with a wheeze. ∘ As dust, there’s nothing left to give. Day after day, week after week, the wind threatened to scatter Cynthia far and wide, but the trees protected her, encircled her, made her wait and rest. Cynthia’s dust shifted and shaped with what breeze seeped in. Sometimes the rain molded her into a hand reaching through entangled roots, fingers stretching to comfort others who passed by, who, too, sought respite of the forest. In drought, she became dust again, relaxing back into the earth, light and free. Waiting. Waiting. To take root again and grow. To look into her own haggard eye, give her other self relief. To be given the chance to return and hold Lila in her arms once more. Until then, as dust, all Cynthia could do was swirl and swirl and swirl. ∘ ∘ ∘