A Twig and Then...

I was a twig. Not metaphorically—a real, splintered sliver of wood, buried in the warm embrace of the earth. Damp soil pressed around me hushing the world's noise, absolute silence, for me to heal.

Somewhere around me, a worm wriggled by, “What are we doing here?” I asked it, my voice more of a thought than sound.

The worm paused, sensing me. "Our kinds don’t talk,” it sensed, “but you’re bound for more than earth.” The words held a sage, fleeting depth. Then it tunneled on, leaving me with the deep quiet once more.

Time passed. One day, or maybe a thousand, something changed. A tug stirred me, roots curling around my splintered form, pulling me into itself. I was becoming a giant tree—or was I only its smallest part? For a moment I was the tree and the next, only a part of it.

A lone watcher in the middle of a vast empty field, on a windswept hill. I held up a single green leaf.

It felt like purpose.

Once under the dirt, now soaring in the sky, years go by, I feel time's poignant drift, yet for me, time stays adrift.

Then, one day, the season turned, and I fell.

A bird found me and carried me in her beak to the top of a nest, weaving me into its crown. I watched from above as her chicks hatched, flailed, and then flew. She lingered, her feathers fading to ash-gray, her sharp eyes softening. One dawn, she leapt and didn’t return.

The nest broke apart in a storm.

And there I was again, drifting, until found by hands. Small hands. A tribal child, wild and curious, turned me into a toy. For a while I was a stick sword, a knife, a pen, a close companion and then I was forgotten.

The night sky was beautiful, stars shimmering in all their glory. I was picked up and placed among friends I never knew. We were starting a fire. I crackled softly and released everything I had been. Smoke curled up and the light danced. I was air now.