The poplar
Sometimes we hurt ourselves, we scratch ourselves, we bleed — for a simple joy... All I wanted to do was to find the poplar again — the tree of my young arms, of my budding breasts. My fingers used to circle around its bold and vigorous waist, but in the course of the years brambles had invaded the path that led to it and covered it with a carpet of thorns. This meant a crossing of pain, of trampling, to reach my joy, to embrace its tall and crevassed body. There it was. I felt its warmth, recognised its animal smell, the magnet that had attracted my chest against its torso long ago. I closed my eyes to better remember and its bark swabbed my bleeding wounds.
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Other stories by Erika Byrne-Ludwig
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"Sometimes we hurt ourselves, we scratch ourselves, we bleed — for a simple joy... "
The truth can hurt.*
Yes, Tim, and so do love and joy. Thank you for your thought.
Quite a journey. Love the idea of a tree providing comfort. I have always thought of trees as kindly.
Many thanks, Dianne.
Notable is the connection between joy and pain. The link is time - the tree's trunk has outgrown the child's hand. But the remembrance of that passes to an emphasis on the brambled path, itself a symbol of passing time. I like the phrase "torso long ago": time's passing and the tree are made, as it were, into one.
Beautiful. Really added to my day.
Many thanks Eamon and Darryl.
Powerful.
Many thanks Gary.
*
Many thanks Jenny.
Enjoyed this piece.
*
Thank you Sam. Happy to see you here...
Remembering the trees of my youth. The limbs I used to caress.
Beautiful!