They chopped the trees down where the border to the next town met the entrance of our neighborhood. I’d roam there throughout girlhood. Whispered, “forest” as the bloom came crushing its way through the thicket. Brushed my hands along their armor and knew they’d try to keep me safe.

The trees are nothing but a martyr for that type of thing and I’m here for the taking. Each branch fell to its death and shook the ground- its limbs tried to reach for me, but I couldn’t save it. Watched it cry to the skies and each layer became thinner and thinner until nothing. There’s such a mourning moment after the ringing stops. Everything is perfectly calm. Shining gently still.

The weeds grew thick around their stumps and I memorialized the fallen leaves like a statue. Combed my hands through the latticework of twisted dandelions and clovers- reminded the world that they’re flowers too. And every living thing has the power to be beautiful. It’s so much more than a weed. They chose to break through what we tore down and that’s some sort of strength I’ll never know.

Years later I crack the spine of a new book. I feel the same surfaces of a familiar tree. The smell of the forest rushes through my pores and pumps life to my heart. I can taste the air like how I did that day. I feel the trees smile in knowing that they died for the sake of words to be printed across their armor. Breathing life back into me.