12. The Property
THE PROPERTY
After a week of torrential rain here and the ongoing process of going through the house, I still haven’t ventured to the basement or out to explore the property. The rain is the cause of the latter, but it is anxiety that keeps me from opening the basement door again.
Fortunately, today the rain finally clears, as do the cobwebs of disillusion that it may never stop.
As I step outside, the warm and still damp air fills my lungs.
I welcome the sun’s heat wafting the smell of waking florals.
I find myself wearing a relaxed smile as I take a step down towards the wraparound porch.
Visions still plague me since coming here.
Growing more and more constant since finding the ring and the box it belongs in.
The ring sits up in my room on the desk overlooking the willow near the pond.
A part of me wants to slide it on my finger to see if it fits.
Another part of me knows it will. But at least with the weather change, I can feel less consumed by its looming presence and more devoted to exploring this beautiful land.
I planned a meeting with Ry to discuss how to allocate my finances. My goal being to keep this house, while also maintaining my shop. Even though the topic of discussion is rather boring to me, I am giddy to see him again.
Yesterday was a turning point in the realization of how strong my attraction is to him. He is dark, serious, but magnetic all the same. He will meet me here within the hour, leaving me a good amount of time to get to know the layout of the property.
The moment my feet step off the last step, I know exactly the direction I am heading.
The walk there is maybe five or so minutes even though I can already see it from here, standing tall and superior.
And the excitement it invokes when I see it there is not one I’ve felt in a while.
Not that inheriting a house isn’t exciting, but I have a kinship toward trees, so this part of the inheritance feels more like second nature.
And one type of tree in particular has been calling to me ever since I fully took it in from out the attic window.
I take a deep breath of warm, rich air that still smells of the wet earth soaking up the rain. A smell that is wholly unique to the bayou here. I curl my hand above my eyebrows, blocking the sun as I look up, my smile extending to my heart.
There in front of me is the largest hickory tree I have ever seen in my life, sitting deep on top of a small hill.
Its roots have a mind of their own as they dip high and low, above and below the ground that the tree birthed from.
The smallest purple thistle plant grows underneath, seeming almost out of place amongst its knotted roots.
I have never seen anything so magnificent.
And it doesn’t take long for the magnificence and wonder of it to seep slowly into me, fixing itself to the depths of my bones.
But just as my bones soak in the beauty of that feeling, there is another feeling fighting to replace it.
A hollow sadness curls its way into my chest. I felt this in my shop just weeks ago, and here it sits again at the pit of my stomach.
I collapse to the ground as tears fall without warning down my cheeks. This sadness shouldn’t belong to me, but it covers me like a weighted blanket closing down on my chest. I wipe my eyes, and try to take a few steps closer to the tree. But with every step, the heartache grows stronger.
My hand goes to my chest trying to pull out the anguish within.
I just want to reach out and touch one of the branches or sit within the root-formed circle that seems just for me.
But this unknown heart hurt is too much to bear, and I cannot be here any longer, even if some deeper force inside my soul begs me to stay.
I turn away regretfully, needing relief from the foreign emotions working through me.
The farther I get from the tree, the less my heart aches.
It’s a strange occurrence I’ve never experienced before.
How can something pull me in so strongly only to repel my whole being the moment I get close?
It was heartbreak in its raw form, and I had only felt it once before.
What I knew of love, I learned from my mother.
I knew what loss was because of her, too.
And the feeling I just felt at this tree is so similar to the feeling my heart went through when she passed.
An unbearable ache in my chest that I reckon could crack my whole body in half.
But there was an angry twist to this ache, making it different somehow.
Perhaps, a different form of love being broken.
Not far off from the hickory is a large oak.
Standing on its own and seeming to take up more land than is necessary.
It sits perched, leaning to one side, as if it can’t believe it is only just now being noticed.
As I walk towards it, I see a massive limb has fallen on one side.
It looks fresh, making me think back to the loud crash I heard a few days earlier when the storm raged its hardest. It must have been this poor oak making itself known as part of it smashed to the ground from the strike.
I’ve always loved oaks. They carry a certain truth about them that speaks out through their branches.
The way they twist and turn and reach out to keep searching for what is beyond them.
And the darkness that comes with all that truth lingers on this oak in the deep crevices of its bark.
I think of the word written underneath its illustration in that beautiful tattered book. Oath. How very fitting.
I pass the fallen limb and notice in its destruction it has also snapped a branch off the neighboring tree. When one falls from grace in such a dramatic manner, they’re bound to take down a few others along the way. I guess the same goes for trees.
Turning toward the house, I walk to the small pond in the back, where the willow stands in all her nurturing glory.
Already I feel lighter making my way to the tree that my mother always loved.
I float past tall and straight pines and curvy, ropey cypress trees.
I all but run toward the welcoming willow, letting the dangling curtain-like leaves brush upon my skin.
As a kid, I would swing from willow branches, having so much trust that they would never let me fall.
I sit down under its enormous trunk, closing my eyes and staying still beneath the tree facing toward the sun.
The soft rays bleed a soothing warmth into my essence.
Accepted is how I feel here. Not just at this tree, but at the house, at this property. Well, now apart from the hickory.
I can only imagine how I will take to the town.
Will I have the same silent knowing of a life that belonged to me there?
My thoughts turn toward the jade ring. A broken but whole artistry about it.
Perhaps it will not even fit—that is, if I ever find the nerve to try it on.
And where is the ring marked Opal? And why are both in such a unique box?
I try to settle my mind and relax a bit into the trunk of the tree.
Words are whispered in the breeze. Faint and soft like a mourning dove’s gentle coo.
A choice was made, so you could live. And then later the whisper changes to a louder hum as if someone were right in my ear.
Listen, my love. He is here. Guard your heart, for he does not possess one, and he will take yours at all costs.