Where I am I am not safe. There are no trees. Anyone looking at me can see all of me, from my head down to my feet. I can hide nothing. The wind is strong and harsh. The trees, the trees are over there; a sparse line of them is within running distance. But I am sitting, and I am so tired. The trees would keep me safe: safe from the wind and safe from the eyes.
There is a pond between the trees and I. There are reeds and swallows and dandelions. The wind makes the water ripple and so shimmer, and the reeds sway. My hair blows around me, and I feel like I am in some sort of picture. Still, as beautiful as it is, I want to run to the trees.
Were I still a child would run to the trees, run with the wind at my back, and it would be friendly. I would not be tired. But now the trees are so far away. Were I still a child I would climb the trees and look down at the water and the reeds with a handful of dandelions clutched in my fingers. I would throw them down, but the wind would pick them up and sweep them away. When I was a child I was never far from trees. It was not a conscious choice. My mother was always afraid; but I trusted. Only one tree has ever let me fall, and it was not one of my trees.
I always trusted: my instincts, things that held me. Now I find it harder to trust. As we grow we lose as we gain. There can only be one hundred percent. We sacrifice. It has been long since I have been in the trees.
The trees are so far away, and I am so tired.