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story; an experimentation; needs work and a title

            Plant a rock tree.  Let your father dig its hole your backyard; let your mother hand pick it from an annual plant sale.  Let the two of them choose a warm winter evening when blue clouds layer the sky—let them choose the night for you to plant it.  When your mother says it’s fragile, cup it in both hands, lowering it gently into the soil.  When you look up, your father will say, Now that's a good job. And your mother will offer to bake cinnamon sugar cookies.  While they bake, stare out the window.  Wonder what kind of rocks your tree will grow.  Examine its stony branches, protruding like twisted thorns, and watch its stillness as falling raindrops grow from sparse to heavy.  Trees need lots of water, your father will tell you, as he places a cinnamon sugar cookie in your hand.  Wonder whether or not you should believe him.

            Wake up from booming thunder and scurry to your parents’ room.  Sleep between them and ask yourself if trees are afraid of thunder too.  Fall asleep again to your mother's lullabies.

            Wake up; today's your first day of school, your father will say.  Choose your favorite overalls and let your mother do your hair in pigtails.  Finish a cinnamon cookie and sliced apple breakfast, but don't leave for the bus corner before checking on your tree.  Stand alone with it in your backyard, hug it and notice a granite leaf budding from one branch.

            At school, you’ll make new friends.  Your teacher will have a funny name, so just call her misses v.  Don't play with blocks or trucks because the boys will snatch them out of your hands.  Don't play with dolls because you don't like them.  Ignore the books because all words are only meaningless glyphs until you can read.  Find a friend.  Her name will be Liddy.  Play pirates and astronauts with her, play pet shop and hospital: anything you don't need toys for.  At home, over lunch your mom will ask , How was your day? Tell her it was great.  Don't forget not to talk with food in your mouth.

            The tree will grow a little bigger and will soon have a full head of granite and limestone leaves.  You will grow a little bigger and learn to read, you'll lose your first tooth, you'll have your first sleepover. Your grandmother will get sick.  You will go to visit her in the hospital, and even though your parents say it's okay to touch her, she will only receive a tentative hug from you.  Go to her funeral.  Sit in the front row, but don't go near the casket because you're still afraid.  Don't cry because you don't understand what it means to be dead.  Sit and stare in confusion until you see tears crawling down your father's cheek.  Then cry without understanding why or being able to stop.

            Your family will eat dinner in brittle silence.  When you mother begins stacking dishes, visit the rock tree.  Watch the wind blow past its branches.  Think about this stasis and realize your tree is alive too, that just like your grandmother, it has to die.  Cry when your father tucks you into bed.  It's okay, he'll say, I'm sure grandma is in a better place. His smile will dry your tears.  Smile back, but cry yourself to sleep after he shuts the door behind him.

            Your tree will grow sturdy granite branches covered in pumice twigs.  One day, you'll notice a small quartz fruit growing; the day afterwards, you'll have your first period.  Feel ashamed and embarrassed cleaning yourself with toilet paper in a stall of the girl's bathroom, and feel relieved when Liddy brings her pair of gym shorts for you to wear for the rest of the day.  Watch her tell the gym teacher she forgot to pack them in her bag and watch your gym teacher put a bold X on Liddy's perfect line of checks for preparation.  When your mother asks what happened, tell her.  Watch her smile as she cooks your dinner.  Eat without your father because he will have to work late that day.

            Your rock tree will become grow more beautiful.  Sit under it when you feel bored and admire how the crystals gleam in the sunlight.  Look in the mirror and feel ugly.  Look disproportionate and awkwardly tall.  Go to school in silence and come home in silence.  Hope no one looks at you too hard.  Watch Liddy grow more beautiful, watch her catch the eyes of all the boys.  Smile at them and watch them look past, toward the person behind you.  Bring good grades home, not because you like school, not because you study hard; do it because it's easy and because you want to make your father proud.  He'll buy you a red cellphone when you get straight A's.  On the car ride home, try to ask him how to enjoy life.  Feel hurt when he chuckles to himself and tells you that there's nothing to worry about.  Slam the door when you get out of the car.  In the aroma of cinnamon sugar cookies, stare out the window into your backyard, holding your cellphone and wishing you had more numbers to put in the phonebook.

            At school the next day, make fun of the skinny boy who wears glasses.  Don't remember why.  Your classmates will laugh beside you, even after he scampers away.  He won't come to school the next day... or the day after.  You’ll worry about him in your math class until mrs. v. asks for the value of x, until you answer with a blank stare.  Go home with Liddy and sit under the rock tree.  Its calcified arms reach above your head, almost as if to hug you.  Tell Liddy the guilt you feel.  She'll ask, Why don't you go visit him?

            When he answers the door, tell him you're sorry.  He'll ask, For what?  You’ll feel an intense anger and an overwhelming satisfaction at hearing these words.

            Graduate into high school.  Most of your classes will seem useless and boring.  Help Liddy with her math homework.  Show an advanced proficiency in French.  Make some new friends, but always feel distant from them.  Stop trusting your parents because your father won't let your stay out past ten thirty. Draw stick figures in your classes and write angsty poetry in your free time.  Feel jealous when Liddy gets a boyfriend not just because she's more beautiful than you, but because she pays more attention to him than.  Pull your first all-nighter, and look out your bedroom window to see the gleam of your tree's marble trunk.  Move up a level in French.  Learn to enjoy coffee so you can crank out angsty poetry in more rapid succession.  Go to your tree every day, even if only to stand idly and soak the light beaming from the marble and amethyst.

            The trunk of your tree will have grown too wide for you to hug by your senior year.  By this time, you're fluent in French, near-fluent in Spanish and beginning Italian. Everyone at school will call Liddy a s**t, but she will have told you not to believe them.  You'll have trusted her for two years, until this year when you drop by her house and find that she’s been lying to you all along.  Feel shocked, then appalled, then betrayed.  Don't speak to her; wait for her to come to you.  She never will.

            Stop writing poetry; you'll have realized by now that none of it is any good.  Try to keep a journal, but fail because you never grasp the words you need to express yourself.  Start talking to your father again.  Let him know you love him at least once a week.  Tell him about your life, but not your secrets.  Instead, tell those to your tree.  Whisper them into its marble bark, and think your secrets to it when you hold its quartz crystals.

            Spanish will be easy and Italian boring.  But don't drop Italian because you have a crush on the boy who sits a few rows in front of you.  Hurry off after class so that he doesn't see you, except for the day you drop your textbook.  Try to grab it before anyone notices, and take a deep breath when his hand reaches it first.  He'll pick it up and hand it to you. He'll say, We should hang out sometime.

            Drop Italian and go on a date.  Walk under bridges and through puddles; talk about politics, movies and books; reveal the stories of your past.  He'll walk you home, and do this on every date.  The night you introduce him to your father, they'll like each other.  After your boyfriend goes home, tell your father you've been thinking about college.  He'll smile and put a brochure on the kitchen table; his alma mater's name will be on the cover.  After he falls asleep, venture across the dark grass to your tree.  Rest your head at its roots and become too comfortable to stay awake.

            Apply to college, become fluent in Spanish and purchase Christmas gifts with your own money.  See snow for the first time in your life.  Take a picture of the rock tree covered in white.

            Get an acceptance letter from your father's college and start slacking off in school.  Bring your boyfriend over for dinner more often.  Your mother will like him too; much more than his mother will like you. 

            Come home from school one day and find your tree without leaves; a puddle of sand will lie below it, intermixed with sparse amethyst gems.  You’ll be scared enough to bring a dozen books home from the library; none of them could ever explain this phenomenon.   Try to sleep at night; your anxiety will get in the way for days.  Bring your boyfriend to the tree.  He'll nod his head, but you can see in stone-like his eyes that he doesn't understand how much it means to you.  Cry yourself to sleep in his arms two nights in a row.  Lose your virginity to him on the third, but wake up the next morning only with thoughts of your tree's mortality.

            Over coffee and sugar cinnamon cookies the next morning, you'll notice the sickliness of your tree has gone away.  The limestone leaves will have been replaced with obsidian, and the granite branches will have grown into marble.  Run across the glass threshold to hold it.  I love you, will escape your lips.  The tree will make no motion, but you will feel it needs you too.

            Break it off with your boyfriend; his college will be too far away from yours.  Your four years at college will be a blur.  On campus, sleep less, eat more and make a lot of new friends.  Begin to learn Chinese.  Attempt to adjust to the colder climate.  Cycle through a few boyfriends before deciding to stay single.  Pick up Russian and Arabic and learn to drink espresso as if it were water.  Make friends with your good professors and talk smack with your friends about the bad ones.  Work hard and party harder.  Don't ever remember the date and struggle to grasp the day of the week.  Try drugs until you experience a bad trip and decide you'll stick to beer.  Begin to work more seriously after you declare your major.  Learn to focus without any stimulant.  Abandon the notion you want to stay single, but never find a man who interests you.  Begin translating books into English for fun.

            Go home after you graduate.  Get a small apartment half an hour from your old house.  Visit your tree when your parents are out.  Stand below it and marvel at its commanding image.  Keep visiting until your key no longer works in the front door and you can see new interior decorating through the window.  When your parents call you to say they've sold your house, visit them in person.  Lose your temper. 

            Meet a man through a friend of a friend.  Date him for two years before he asks to marry you.  He'll be witty and handsome.  You'll go on walks with him through fog  and across bridges.  You'll talk about money, literature and politics.  Know he isn’t perfect, but always secure when his arms wrap around your chest.  You'll find his faults, but won’t hesitate to tell him yes as he kneels before you.

            Your old house will go on sale.  Flap the newspaper ad in your husband's face, spreading the smell of breakfast coffee across your kitchen.  When you visit it, your husband will become enthralled by the memories there.  Barely find the money to buy it.  Pack your limited possessions and drive them across town, not bothering to take them out of their stale boxes before standing below your tree.  Close your eyes and feel secure with your arms wrapped around it.

            Your two children will grow up in that house.  You'll see them off on their first day of school; the tree will see them play their first games of pirates, astronauts and pet shop.  Visit your parents on a constant basis and have long, interesting talks over a short, discolored coffee table.  Some nights, after your husband falls asleep, go to your tree.  The moon will cast its shadow to envelop you.  When you go back to bed, your last thought before falling asleep in your husband's arms will be that you are the happiest you've ever been.

            The doctor's office will make you feel uncomfortable.  Until you're taken in for more xrays, you'll have thought you were just cold.  You'll be sent to the hospital where it will be confirmed: you have breast cancer.  When you ask the doctor, he won't have to think about the answer. Seven months at most, he'll say as if he had known it his whole life.

            Go home and cry in your husband's arms; don't tell the children.  Go to your father and cry in his arms.  He won't know what to say, but will know exactly how to hold you.  You'll find Liddy and tell her you're sorry for everything.  She'll say the exact same to you, but as these words pass through you, you'll realize how little they mean now.  The skinny boy with glasses will not apologize to you, but he will acknowledge your apology this time.  In bed, when your husband's arms aren't enough, go to your tree.  You'll hit it, kick it, turn your back to it and scream into the night.  But before returning to your sleep, you'll always calmly leave it.

            Christmas will come; you know there won't be another.  Your children will open their presents.  As they play with their new toys, you'll watch.  You'll wonder who will cook your daughter dinner when she has her first period.  You'll wonder who will put your alma mater's brochure on the kitchen table for your son.  You'll wonder who your dad will talk to, who your husband will fall asleep with, who will tell your tree goodnight after you've gone.

            The morning you die will have blue layered clouds.  Outside your bedroom window, you will see them float above the white marble tree.  Its ruby blossoms will catch splinters of sun and cast pink everywhere.  Your father will come into your room and you’ll faintly smile.  He'll smile back at you, but stop above you after shutting the door behind him.  It's okay, you'll tell him, we'll all find a better place.  Then time will drown you.  Though your husband will fall to his knees before your body, your father will silently place a hand on his shoulder.

            Your mother and father will visit your home to help take care of your kids.  Your husband won't remarry.  The smell of cinnamon sugar cookies will fill the house with memories and all your family will continue to look out the window.

            Your tree will continue to stand, but its ruby blossoms will grow cloudy and crack.  The amethyst and quartz will fall.  The limestone, marble and granite, starting at the topmost branches and ending with the roots, will wear to sand and blow away softly in the silent wind. 

Reviews

[Melissa]

Amazing. Of all your works that I've read (granted, I haven't read too many of your fiction pieces), this is the most impressive, the most enjoyable, the most astounding. A rock tree -- what a wonderful image. I love this.

One minor thing: you're missing a "you" at the end of the sentence, "Feel jealous when Liddy gets a boyfriend not just because she's more beautiful than you, but because she pays more attention to him than." But you would have caught that eventually.

In terms of reworking this (you said in your description that it needs work), I can't think of anything right now. It's quite lovely the way it is.