the cherry tree

it slipped from me for a while, but even so I could hear it sing through every passing rustling branch I could feel it through the slow victory of the roots taking stance in the ground breaking free between cracks of cement, on top of the soil I sit and feel the swing beneath me carrying me up upupward, supported by the cherry tree branches that have been cut, what that means is I’m struggling to conceptualize a world without branches once I got used to their support how do I grow my own roots so they spill out of me to try and fill the gap because I had the privilege of security for a while picking raspberries in the garden, mulberries, pears, sweet and now decaying, soil dusted particles retained in my memory struggling to recall your voice from afar, yet within as I recall, so close, I lost my branches in the fall, there were plastic jugs cut in half filled with love and cherries, now dreams signifying home, I yearn for the raspberries again againagainagain growing beside the sunflowers growing highhigher piercing the sky with bright yellow points greeting the atmosphere, I never got to say goodbye somehow you never really do you never really want to and I don’t know how I’m losing my conception of linear time searching the cellar for spirits in the hanging dried chilies among the jars of sauce, preserves, pickled green tomatoes, the unfinished doll house with its bare walls next to the full freezer filled with food and the ice cream I’d be offered: three colours: pink, brown, and white; I only wanted the pink and the brown like petals bursting through the earth the happiness swirled and melted me down into the greenhouse again where life and death intermingle, wilting leaves leave me breathless with a feeling of heaviness I’d only experienced in nightmares and I can’t wake up I’m already awake and I’m already awake and I see the cherry tree from the rooftop of the shed after climbing the rickety ladder with watchful eyes and sturdy arms at the ready behind me helping me grab the ripe red jewels before the pesky birds he still loved reached them first, and now I stand only with the wind and the leaves and I’m letting the breeze consume me as I’m learning how to catch myself so please, for now, just stay with me through the wind and trees and cherry leaves


Samantha Greco is from Toronto, Ontario, and spends her free time walking a rose laden heath to find her words by listening to the singing honey bees.