Bones
All winter long she watched the same tree. She could see it out her back window, its branches stark and spare. A cup of coffee warmed her hands as she watched the birds perch and chatter to the gray sky. She made a game of counting them and waiting as they flew off one by one to some other tree in some other neighborhood where someone else in some other house could see them framed through a window. Sometimes the tree limbs reminded her of bones, as if the tree were a skeleton in the February air.
One day, she sat at her usual spot and forgot to look out. Another day happened like that. She looked down instead—at a crossword, at an article, at a spill on the counter that needed her attention. Until a morning when the light came in just so, and she finally looked out. The bones had gone. Green leaves crowded the sky. She could barely see the birds through all that green. She could hear them though—singing their spring songs.
She lifted her coffee cup for a sip, and she noticed her fingers wrapped around it. They reminded her of branches. They reminded her of bones. They reminded her.
Comments
Oh! I love anything bone related. That’s great that you are collecting “tree bones.” My characters Milly & Franny (from different plays) collect bones. Milly makes models out them, and Franny categorizes them.
Jan 13 May 09
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Jan, how strange. I’ve been collecting bits of broken tree limbs that I’ve found on the ground and sidewalk and making a small pile of them. I’ve been calling them my “tree bones.” They seem so fragile, such relics. Your tree bones in this piece are living ones, but they strike me this way too. I hadn’t, though, thought of writing about them; I’m glad you did.
~Jane
Jane 13 May 09