Mr Sycamore
Elena rested in the cool shade of Mr Sycamore. He had stood on her family’s property for decades longer than they had owned the land. Fields spread out around her; the rolling hills were engraved with the narrow trails Elena had treaded countlessly over the years.
She breathed in, welcoming the abrasive edge of the grass beneath her hands, imprinting itself into her calloused palms. With that breath she forgot the calluses and how she’d earned them. Her skin was just skin, and this grass was the soft bed that had broken many falls from Mr Sycamore’s high branches.
She breathed in, birdsong filled her mind, harmonizing with the soft woosh of the wind and the calm buzz of the bumble bees. They worked dutifully upon the flowers at Mr Sycamore’s base. She breathed out and forgot the silence that surrounds her when she’s away from this tree, these hills.
Elena didn’t know when she’d stopped thinking of her tree as ‘the old sycamore tree’ and begun referring to him as ‘Mr Sycamore’. Perhaps it was in her childhood, when Elena and her brother, Kai, had climbed Mr Sycamore’s branches. Their mother always chided them for climbing too high with too much haste. But how else were they to escape the goblins and ogres and pirates?
The jagged edges of Mr Sycamore’s bark would give them scrapes and splinters. Battle wounds to take home after long days spent seeking victory over whatever beast Kai had dreamt up. They always won, of course. With the hummingbirds and ladybugs as faithful warriors and the tall grasses and loyal paths guiding their voyages, they couldn’t lose. And, of course, there was Mr Sycamore. He stood tall in the centre of the hills, watching over the lush property and all its inhabitants.
Elena breathed in, the scent of lavender seeping into her bones. It eased her wound muscles, stilled her mind. The lavender bushes boarder her trail home. Home to the house, but also home to Mr Sycamore.
Every week, Elena took the narrow path at the back of the garden. Little feet in too-big wellington boots grew into the tired bones that still carry her over this path, all these years later. The trail is packed dirt, worn in by decades of traffic, even if three sets of feet have now become only one. She wondered if the trail will finally grow over in her absence. She breathed out, and none of that mattered. The past is just the past and the future will come for her in due time but right now, she is here with Mr Sycamore, the lavender and the grass that always cushioned her falls.
Leaves fluttered down around her; the faintest edge of rust-gold caught her eye. The first sign of the changing season. They’ll be deep russet by the time she must leave. They will litter the plush grass she now rests against. They will pile up and crunch as she walks over them. The summer air will trade this soft floral scent for the fresh bite of morning fog and wet nature. The kind of scent that fills your lungs with its own brand of calm. The wind will sing its song louder, orchestrating the tall grasses and swaying branches. Branches that will dance in the autumn symphony and shake free the last of their leaves.
She’ll be back, of course, though she’s not sure in what season. So, she breathed in again and committed it all to memory. The song. The peace. The imprint of the grass on her palms. The subtle itch at the back of her calves, exposed to the grass. The cool shade of Mr sycamore’s leaves and the warm streams of sunlight that break through, as if desperate to caress her cheek.
She breathed out. There’s a whole world out there and she’s going to go see it. She’ll see if the Himalayan mountains bring her the same tranquillity as these hills. If the Detian waterfalls quiet her mind like the lull of these lavender bushes. But she won’t keep walking the same path, taking in the same views, easing the same aches. She will carry this place with her, and she’ll believe that no matter how far she travels, Mr Sycamore will be standing tall enough to watch over her.
