Emily looked at the branches and leaves above her, sunlight and wispy cloud shone through the small gaps, it was a sight she knew well from the days when she was alive.
When we were young Sarah, my sister and I loved this place. We called the tree above us “the wandering tree” as it seemed to move with each gust of wind, each ebb and flow of the river. The grass and wildflowers dancing in union; a majestic waltz. We would dig in the soft loam bare of all but the hardiest plants and examine the insects and grubs we found. When it was raining, we would form mud pies with our hands and pretend to be shop keepers. Selling each sopping lump to each other for sticks. When dry we would create ant and beetle Olympics by placing fallen bark or twigs in the insect’s way. When tired we would watch the people walking over the meadow, down the path, or near the river and imagine what and who they were, disappearing in gales of laughter as each tale grew more outrageous.
One was a spy, another a cartoon character in disguise though I swear I saw the real Mr. Magoo down there once replete with bulbous nose closed eye squint and tiny ears. I even knew that when you grew old your ears got bigger, not tiny, and I was only ten, but he was there. We played there endlessly whilst our dad worked in the house. Sarah and my dad buried me there when I drowned, not a real burial just a hole dug and my drowned body laid in it, covered by dirt and watered by tears.
But foxes or badgers or perhaps inquisitive dogs had uncovered bits of me, and I could see again, the sky, the wandering tree, the meadow, the little path. The fertile loam, the gathering insects, and the hollows beneath the roots of the tree were beginning to reform me from the shapes my sister had drawn upon the dirt.
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