The only little girl in the woods, she liked it that way. Young, very young, safer here than there and not recognising the tragedy of that yet. The forest provided clear sight lines and space above her head, the opposite of hemmed in. Her fledgling mind was safe there. Not that she had thoughts of safety, this is the adult retelling, reframing a natural inclination for a calm environment.
The green-ness felt as home, her favourite colour in so many shades and textures, cosseting her tender body. So small, so lost and yet settled within herself in this place. When older she was told that green was her grandmothers favourite colour and that she would have liked her. By this time she was tall, startled at her woman's body, so much did she feel that small girl inside herself.
There were no rules in this space. The earth beneath her feet did not ask anything of her. The trees stood in their places, unchanging, their moods stable, predictable unlike anything else she knew. The forest was constant and her heart needed that.
Her mothers leaves shimmered in the slightest breeze, she was slight, delicate, glowing silver in the forest. Her skin smooth, pale, her trunk easily encompassed by small arms. The girl felt shy with her, tender, careful. Her father was tall and broad, he touched the sky. Cracked and fissured, her arms when pressed against him held his texture for a time, he impressed her skin. The canopy he provided was a home, a shelter. She did not marvel at his great age, his acorn beginning 300 years before hers, before the estate was built, before anyone living was a twinkle in a long dead eye.
The green-ness felt as home, her favourite colour in so many shades and textures, cosseting her tender body. So small, so lost and yet settled within herself in this place. When older she was told that green was her grandmothers favourite colour and that she would have liked her. By this time she was tall, startled at her woman's body, so much did she feel that small girl inside herself.
There were no rules in this space. The earth beneath her feet did not ask anything of her. The trees stood in their places, unchanging, their moods stable, predictable unlike anything else she knew. The forest was constant and her heart needed that.
Her mothers leaves shimmered in the slightest breeze, she was slight, delicate, glowing silver in the forest. Her skin smooth, pale, her trunk easily encompassed by small arms. The girl felt shy with her, tender, careful. Her father was tall and broad, he touched the sky. Cracked and fissured, her arms when pressed against him held his texture for a time, he impressed her skin. The canopy he provided was a home, a shelter. She did not marvel at his great age, his acorn beginning 300 years before hers, before the estate was built, before anyone living was a twinkle in a long dead eye.
