And my therapist said to me, if you were a tree,
What kind of tree
Would
You
Be?
So I though of the old birch that stood in
My childhood yard.
Of my arms, like his branches, stretching proudly
Towards the sun. Of my thick, sturdy trunk,
Standing as a testament to the many storms
That I have weathered, and survived.
But somehow, that didn’t seem quite right.
And so, I thought of the willow,
Of my hair hiding my face, my shame,
As I weep, proof that I had been through
Many storms, and had not made it through.
But again, something did not fit.
My mind then drifted to the idea of
A perennial shrub, the kind my Mother would plant,
Hiding just under your line of vision there on the ground,
Until it decides, one day, to bloom, showing it’s colors
To the world, proudly, happily. Of course, without warning,
It wilts, and goes back into hiding, out of view.
Waiting, until it feels like blooming once again.
Wilt. Bloom. Die. Bloom. Hide. Bloom.
And to my therapist I said-
Not all of us want to be trees.
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