Posters for the missing kapok tree appear on streetlights offering a reward for its safe return. I hate to spoil it, but the end of every biography is death. The end of a city in the rainforest is a legend and a lost expedition. The end of mythology is forgetfulness, placing gifts in the hole where the worshipped tree should be. But my memory lengthens with each ending. I know where to find the lost mines of Muribeca and how to cross the Pacific on a raft made of balsa. I know the tree wasn’t stolen. She woke from her stillness some equatorial summer evening by a dream of being chased by an amorous faun, which was a memory, which reminded her that in another form she had legs and didn’t need the anxious worship of people who thought her body was a message. She is happier than the poem tattooed on her back says she is, but sadder than the finches nesting in her hair believe her to be. I am more or less content to be near her in October storms, though I can’t stop thinking that with the right love or humility or present of silk barrettes and licorice she might become a myth again in my arms, ardent wordless, needing someone to bear her away from the flood. Copyright © 2014 by Traci Brimhall. Used with permission of the author. |
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