Deeply Rooted

I remember her face, twisted in the fury of betrayal, and the glint of sharpened steel. Then pain, exploding in my chest.

Then nothing.

* * *

It’s funny, how our consideration of time is tied so tightly to our lifespans. As children, a day is like a year or more, a wide-open expanse of possibility ripe for adventure. As adults a day means little. Filled with chores from dawn to dusk, a day is a burden borne with a smile at best. For elders, a day is little more than a fleeting moment, grasped at desperately as it slips through a weakening grip.

But how to describe time now?

I do not know if I have an end. I do not even know what I am. My leaves rustle in the summer breeze as I stare down at the body I once considered mine. Wind runs through my branches as though it were my hair, and roots soak up my blood as eagerly as I used to drink my ale.

But I am not the tree. I am, if anything, a guest.

I watch her bury the body that once held me, and I am furious, but it does not feel the same as it once did. Rage is not the release it once was.

The more I consider that fact, the more I realize that most of what I treasured as a man means nothing now.

My dreams of a family, of a peace far away from loud cities and aggressive trains. A home and a piece of land to call my own.

I had it all, but I refused to see it, my gaze firmly locked on the days yet to come, the goals I had yet to achieve.

The last spadeful of dirt is tossed on top of the grave, and Ella wipes the sweat from her brow. She is beautiful to me, even now. Not a traditional beauty like the women in the advertisements back east. Her nose is too sharp, her lips are too thin, and there’s not quite enough meat on her bones. But she possesses a surprising strength, a sharp wit, and a temperament to match my own.

Ours was a slow love, a battlefield where we tested the other’s defenses vigorously. Sometimes, I thought that even though the war was over, I needed something to fight. In time we learned to gracefully surrender to one another, and after almost two years of courtship, we were married.

I had it all, because I had her.

* * *

I do not know if I am guest or prisoner, but I am rooted here. I feel everything from the tips of my leaves to the smallest extension of my roots, but I cannot move. The farmhouse is always within my sight, but there is no action I can take.

At first, I rage against the confinement. I struggle to move, to escape, to do anything at all, but I have no control. I would shout, but I have no voice. No jailer keeps me here, and though I scream wordless obscenities at my wife, there is no point.

After several days, I surrender. There is nothing I can do but watch.

I see Seth, the sheriff, ride up, tall on his horse. Ella greets him and welcomes him into the house, and I have no way of knowing what happens within. But it seems he is inside for some time.

I wonder if he brings justice. Surely by now, someone has noticed my absence. Erica, at least, has to suspect something. Why else would Seth visit?

But he steps out of the house with a smile on his face. He tips his hat to Ella before returning it to his head. She closes the door and he looks toward the maple. Toward me.

It only takes him a short time to reach me. He squats down and examines the fresh grave, turning over a handful of dirt in his hand. Then he drops it, brushes the rest off his hand, and spits on my grave.

I find out, then, that I cannot weep.

And it is not for a lack of trying.

* * *

The days begin to blur together. Day and night mean little, as I need no sleep. All I can do is watch, and my spirit alternates between a lethargic surrender and manic bursts of frustration and anger.

Daily, Ella reminds me that she can run the farm well enough on her own. Hell, she was basically doing it on her own before.

I didn’t mind working the land. I enjoyed it, in fact. But it seemed there was always something more important that needed to be done. Something more urgent. A deal to be struck with a merchant visiting the nearby town. Scheming of ways to earn a few dollars with the boys down at the saloon. And then, eventually, Erica.

Memories are hard to hold on to. They slip like water through my grasp. I remember Erica, and the times we had. But the why, the why is harder to remember. I wasn’t unhappy. I had no plans to leave Ella. Sometimes, I thought it was because it was just so easy. With Erica there were no fights, no expectations to disappoint. It was fun and nothing more.

Now that seems—insufficient, I suppose. But though I search day and night through my memories, I can’t find anything more.

* * *

Ella leaves at times, but mostly stays. She likes the silence of the land just as I did. She works the fields, and harvests more crops alone than we ever did together.

In the winter Seth starts to visit regularly. First during the days, then eventually overnight.

Emotion gets harder to hold onto with every passing day, but my old friend fury returns the first time I see that horse approaching as the sun goes down.

It is nothing against Seth. I liked him well enough, though he always was a bit of a straight-shooter for my tastes. Like me, he was a veteran, and had served with distinction.

But right now I want to scream at him. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and yell, “Ella is my wife! Do you even know what she did?”

Almost as if he can hear me, he turns to look at the maple as he nears the house.

Then he is inside, and there is nothing left to watch, though my imagination paints the scene well enough.

But anger doesn’t hold me like it once did. It burns out quick, as though there’s nothing for it to consume.

* * *

Days turn into seasons and seasons into years. Memories are nearly impossible to summon, as are thoughts themselves. Most days, I just am.

Watching is everything I know.

Seth comes over more often, and one day he comes and doesn’t leave again. He works the fields with Ella, and the harvests grow every year.

Not once has Ella come to my grave since she buried me. But then one day she does, her belly so full it looks like she might become a mother any day now. Long dormant emotions stir. Memories, almost lost to time, return. Of us, talking about children. About building something we could give to them.

Though the child isn’t mine, all I want to do is reach out and embrace her, congratulate her. She had always been more eager. What would be different if I’d been less cautious? Or less selfish? I wasn’t ready for the burden, but I’d told myself it was because we weren’t ready. The farm wasn’t stable enough yet.

If I’d given her a child, would it be me down there, working the fields, instead of Seth?

The question drifts lazily through my thoughts, but then Ella is on her knees. Wild grass has covered my grave. There is no marker. But she kneels right where my feet are. A few tears trickle down her face, but she wipes them away quickly. She stares at my grave, saying nothing.

Finally, she stands up. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Then she wipes her tears one last time.

I recognize the event for what it is. The goodbye we never had.

She marches to the farmhouse, eyes firmly fixed on the future.

* * *

The greatest peace in the world is born when there is nothing to do, nothing to accomplish. I had thought that when she said goodbye, it might cut whatever rope held me here, might open the jail doors and let me walk free toward whatever mystery lay ahead. But I remain.

I watch.

Seth and Ella have five children together, and the quiet farmhouse is quiet no longer.

Seth adds on to the building I constructed. The children grow, learn, and work the farm. They visit me often, though I suspect they have no idea I’m here. Seth hangs a swing from one of my strong limbs. As they grow older, a few sneak up here at night, and they sit with their boyfriends and girlfriends, enjoying almost the same view I do.

The children become adults with families of their own that come to visit on holidays.

Seth and Ella grow old. One winter, Ella stops coming out of the farmhouse and I fear the worst.

But come spring, she is out again. She looks weaker, though, as if the winter had stolen something from her and taken it north.

She’s still beautiful in my sight.

* * *

That summer, Ella dies.

She’s out on the porch, sitting in her favorite chair, dozing after a morning of chores. Then she stops snoring, releases a long, gentle exhale, and breathes no more.

The whole family reconvenes. Seth, back as straight as that first day he rode to the farmhouse. The children and the grandchildren, all of whom loved her.

I’m surprised when they bring Ella, wrapped in linen, toward me. Most of the women and children are carrying spades. The men gently lay Ella down, then pick up the spades and get to work. With so much help, it’s done in no time at all.

They place her body in the grave, only a few feet away from mine, and begin covering it back up. Finally, Joseph, the eldest, speaks. “Why, Da? Why no coffin, or no marker? And why here?”

Seth finishes pouring his spade of dirt into the hole. Then he stabs it into the ground and leans against it. He sighs. “It was what she wanted. This place—this tree, has a lot of meaning for her.”

Joseph doesn’t look satisfied. “I’ve never seen her up here a day in her life.”

Seth gives his son a sad smile. “Still. It’s what she wanted, and I see no reason to deny her.”

“You going to be buried here, too?” Joseph asks.

Seth shakes his head. “No. This place isn’t for me. I’ll have a spot at the veteran’s cemetery outside of town.”

When the burial is done they talk. They tell stories of their mother and their grandmother. They laugh and they cry, and eventually they leave.

For life goes on.

I feel her then, a gentle presence at my side.

Here, there is no need for words. In an instant, she knows that her apology has been heard, and there is nothing left between us except forgiveness.

We embrace, and my cell finally opens.

Together, we only hesitate for a moment. Then we escape.

We are everywhere, and then we are nowhere.

And it is perfect.