Evergreens

Your eyes collect tears, blurring your vision before you blink. Like condensation on a car window. The evergreens are visible. You make out an image of a man on a bench with a book. He remembers how his daughter would play in the grass and say, “Daddy, look! A four-leaf clover!” How she’d clasp her hands together and rock side to side when he’d tell her she’s perfect. Now he must find significance in a life that lacks her voice.

Weeks later, you sit on this bench. The evergreens haven’t changed. The air is still cool. There’s a child who looks just like you did, running in circles, laughing. They don’t need self-help books. They don’t need saving. All they need is enjoyment. The sun is missing. The child is the brightness. The wind makes you hold yourself. The child doesn’t notice how cold it is. There is so much to learn. But this child gets it. To dance through what is given and taken.

The sky becomes tired. No one is here. You’re waiting for lightning to strike in front of your feet so that you’ll have a reason for being rattled. So that your usual audience will be empathetic instead of telling you to stop being sad. And so you wait. And wait. Nothing miraculous happens. You view this as a setback. The mistake you always make. Believing you’re owed something you’ll never even value.

Some get away with what they’ve done. Others ache until they return to God. There are questions that need not be asked. Because the damage was never meant to be repaired. It was meant to swarm inside you. You once took a risk and felt indifferent. You’d take the same risk if life were a loop. Because this is who you are. You rarely make hasty decisions, and when you do, your expectations aren’t met.

You’re in a room with someone who asks if you’ve ever been harmed. You look at the door. He tells you to look at him. He’s simply asking you a question. Again, you look at the door. Look at me, he repeats. You’re back on the bench. The man who lost his daughter is beside you. The child who reminded you of yourself is sitting on the grass. You see the book the man’s reading. The pages are blank. He turns to the last page, and there’s a crayon drawing of a little girl holding her father’s hand in a field of pink flowers. The flowers lack stems. The little girl and father are triangles with sticks for arms and legs. The lines are all crooked. It’s the best picture in the entire world.

The child comes toward the bench and offers a four-leaf clover. The man holds it and breaks down. There are no more seasons he can experience with his daughter. This is all he has. The child walks off as the evergreens take them back to their permanent home. The man follows the same trail. The book is left behind. The drawing is missing. The pages are now filled. It will fall into the hands of someone new.