Seventeen starts with a
horrible blow. The blood rains down in a numb sort of way. I can’t see. I’m
scared, though I act like I’m not. All I want is to be back in my dad’s warm arms
away from the cold, the hot, the dark. There’s a pinch, and life hits harder
than it has in almost three years. I see my fear reflected back at me in the
eyes of strangers at night. My terror manifests itself in sleepless nights,
hurried walks home, and relief mixed with dread when I should be most
comfortable. I’ve never been afraid of them before, but now I find myself
quickening my step, making detours, and doing everything I can to not be alone
with them. I find it hard to trust in anything. I feel like a child, surrounded
by people who can’t see her because of the fog. I try friends, I try books, I
try The Book. They all bring temporary relief but nothing stops the shadows on
my wall at night. I think back to my home and my oak tree, always quiet and
strong and ready to support my weight. I think of the maples, always watching
and caring. The four of them together form a sort of safety net that in the
past has always been my most secret treasure, so closely guarded that they themselves
are unaware of their worth to me. But now, here, when I need them most, there
is a giant between us. Massive, blue, unmovable, and unforgiving. I consider
for a moment going home, but it’s not in my nature to give up. I must keep
trekking across this seemingly boundless tundra of ice, and I must do it alone.
But I can’t let it show. Because letting it show makes it real. The tears that
don’t fall freeze inside me. I harden myself to the outside world, while
maintaining the appearance of normal. I’m like a fall breeze. Cool, but not so
cold as to be unpleasant. I’m waiting for someone to notice, to say something.
They don’t. They comment on the scar on my face, not knowing that the real scar
is inside. I keep walking.
Gradually, the cold frost of winter fades. The icicles
melt, the tears fall. It’s a relief to finally let it out, to release the
bitterness, the fear, the fake smiles, the pain. I don’t know what it was
exactly that made it okay. Maybe it’s still not. All I know is that I still
miss my trees and won’t be completely right until I swing in their branches and
smell their smell again, but I’m starting to become aware of the garden around
me. The slightly slanted sunflower that brightens when we laugh. The spunky
snap dragon who I've been trying to watch out for in the midst of my own
battle. The solid dogwood tree who’s never let me down. The patient and caring
daisy who can always make me smile. And most recently, the sturdy pine, who
keeps me going in the right direction and who, although a little prickly, gives
the best hugs. They, along with the rest of the garden which is full of flowers
and trees too numerous to even begin to name, come together in symphony of
colors that is music to my soul every single day. I don’t know what I’m going
to do without them, but the best part about these flowers and trees is that they've changed me. And the thing about change is that it stays with you
forever.
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