Acacia
by Diana Radovan, Regular Contributor
I would watch her from outside, the little girl
Who’d come to the window each night,
Tell me goodnight stories
And eat my blooms.
I gave her shade as the sun burnt bright in summer.
I gave their whole home shade with my trunk and branches.
Her mother would sometimes come to the window too,
At least the window of her own room,
If not the one in her daughter’s.
One summer, when the girl was twelve,
Part of me died.
First, there was a night with thunder and lightning.
Then came the men with hatchets.
It was safer that way, they said,
The rest of me would not fall onto their home and strangle it.
Everything changed from that day onwards.
On some days, from my shortened height,
I’d still see the girl’s shade lingering
Above what was left of me,
But almost never her mother’s.
I sprouted new leaves and short branches
Years later
But I don’t know
If I’ll ever sprout new blooms.
The little girl grew up.
I’d see her leave the house on her own
And then the street,
And probably the city, the country.
Years passed, and my roots grew stronger.
And when the woman-girl comes visit,
She still looks at me, if only for a second.
With her hands, her camera, her pen.
With her memory and her imagination.
She both looks and doesn’t look like her mother.
On some days, I think she writes about us.
