The Sycamore Tree

Behind my tiny cottage, lives a Sycamore Tree.

Mother told me it’s been here before we were even born. Our job as groundskeepers is to make sure the Tree never dies. We honor the Sycamore, as a symbol of our undying admiration. Watering it every morning, pruning the leaves, grafting the branches.

I lie on my yoga mat, imagining the crisp image of the Sycamore, just a couple of feet away. I’ve lived here for six months now, since Mother disowned me after finding the ClearBlue in the trash can, with two distinct, positive lines. All sorts of buckets and containers litter my tiny cottage, catching rainwater through the crevices of my home. That’s all I seem to do: accumulate rain and water the Tree. But, I don’t complain. Not that much. It’s nice out here—fresh air, stillness, and quiet. Living on a secluded mountain has its perks. No noisy neighbors, no harsh freeway sounds—nothing at all.

Standing up, I walk toward the nearest bucket of water. Completely full, as expected. Just barely splashing the carpet. I try not to spill any as I walk outside my front door. Every day, I also try to take a little walk outside, so I don’t go insane. Mother once mentioned that after having me, she attempted to smother me; my crying was too loud. But don’t be alarmed—that’s just our way of expressing our love for each other! Surely you tell your mother you love them, right?

A steady, drizzle of rain accompanies me as I stroll along the empty trail. Again, no one ever lives here. For miles and miles up ahead, the only person you will find is me. You see that tall Sycamore up ahead? That’s the one. My pride. Look at the way its branches tangle into each other, as its roots develop deep into the soil. I make sure it keeps growing taller, sprouting farther and farther up into the sky. A home to the birds I never hear, food to the squirrels I never see.

And yet, it doesn’t make sense.

Of course not. How could the Tree even know?

How does the Tree even thrive?

Was the Tree always watching? Delirious labor, my vision going to black. Then, red. Black and red. She killed it. My son, I mean. My mother drew the noose, by the umbilical cord. Primal. She didn’t even use the knife.

No one lives here, because I’ve always lived here. Lying breathless on the same yoga mat I use today, Mother never saw it coming. The knife laid prettily on the nightstand, just an arms-length away. I didn’t see it coming. In no more than a second, my mother crumpled into a pile of blood-splattered flesh. The cottage was mine to keep. It is only fair.

It was an act of love, of course. Sacrificing the infant to the Tree. And an act of love, from me, towards my dear mother.

Don’t you understand? Mother got her wish. She always did. I performed the rituals, sprinkling her ashes across the vibrant leaves. I made sure that her death was well-received. I buried my child alongside her. Dust, and to dust you shall return.

As the rain continuously patters down my back, I gaze longingly at the Tree, the grave of my infant son, and my mother. I pour the rainwater slowly against their roots, my palm against the firm bark.

I am the groundskeeper. Collecting fresh rainwater to quench my family’s thirst. Pruning the leaves, trimming their overgrown hair. Grafting the branches, to reproduce children.

The Tree trembles with vitality, living for another day.