“Rebirth—This Way Down”

My mother always told me never to climb trees. I could fall, scratch myself— die, she used to say.

So, I climbed trees.

I held up a stick figure drawing of my best friend’s happy family, but big people shredded my perspective of the ideal family into fragments scattered across spotless squares of white and black. When I ran across the playground, Julianne stuck her foot out and I fell, scraping my knee. I ran away to the park. The berries of a Hawthorn dropped after me as if I were Gretel needing to find her way back home.

“But I don’t want to go back home. Climbing tall trees is safer.” The berries stopped creating a trail for me. Not all trails led to warmth. Blood trickled down my knee staining my white socks. Haw berries dangled graciously.

“Not all red spells danger.”

Whitebeam clusters speckled evergreen backdrops. I climbed a magnificent oak, I slipped but the sturdy arms of a trunk caught me just in time. Mother Robin let me watch her baby birds. She moved a capricious twig—a blind spot—so that I could help a red squirrel knit a nest.

The orange-breasted bird puffed up in a proud stance.

“When robins appear, loved ones are near.”

2

I walked around in a circle. The park’s gates loomed in the distance. Loved ones? Yes, The Fallen. Fallen Foliage, nature’s heroes. Down there, beyond the park’s gates, big people scratched me when I did—what did I do?

When I climbed the huge chestnut, a piece of bark scratched my arm. When the rings of a maple tree sang Happy 18th Birthday, I bought a lottery ticket and scratched. Scratching can be good.

Scratching doesn’t always result in scabs and scarring. Wise Owls rotated their heads at my winning ticket.

Beech trees are good for hugging.

When my graduation ceremony invitation arrived, my mother sang her version of congratulations.

“Set the table.”

Trees are not welcome to graduation ceremonies, so I sat between the fork of a Black Locust.

The last leaf of autumn floated elegantly into a foam cup. “That’s no way to die,” I said, burying it in a mountain of rustling leaves.

I died down there, beyond the park’s gates. But rebirth began from top to bottom. From the tip of a tree all the way down to the Earth’s crust.

Across the seasons, I watched children play as Samaras tickled my cheeks. Mothers and fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers caressed leaves, fragile petals, and marveled at the resilient nature of bark after weathering many storms. I came to the conclusion that there is more good in this world than bad, even down there, beyond the park’s gates.

I visit my adoptive family alone, with a gentle human, with my grandchildren. I climbed for old time’s sake until arthritis nudged me to stop and admire from another angle. Hugging is still possible.

Isabelle B.L is a writer and teacher based in France. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology, Ample Remains, Visual Verse, and elsewhere.