In the distance you see her – skirts clutched, she stumbles toward you, through the vast cavern. Far above, the ceiling collects and spreads darkness. But a vague luminosity of indefinite source slides over her form as she runs. This pale glow gathers in the folds of her dress, defines the wayward strands of her hair. Observe — the knot of hair at the base of her neck works loose.
Catch her, as she collides into you. Feel her shoulders convulse as she weeps into her hands. Sense her exhaustion, her heartbreak. Hear the tumble of words pour from her lips.
Listen — to her sad story. Of drama, deception, heartbreak. Of the man she had loved, had devoted herself to. See, as she speaks of him, his image grow in your mind – a tall man, regal in bearing, a cascade of bright black hair. Dressed in antique style, in blue surcoat and white lace cravat. Wonder how she could not have seen the arrogance, the cruel calculation in his eyes, how she could never have suspected. Oh, but she knew now. When their son reached 15 years of age. Then, she learned. The ugly truth. That she would be drained entirely of blood to sustain the boy, that her whole purpose had never been otherwise.
So she had run. Escaped. And now, feared endless pursuit.
Accept her head within the curve of your neck and shoulder. Accept her sobs. Embrace her. Hold her tight, steady her as her body wracks with spasms. Take her narrow hands in your own, and lead her from the road, away, to the field of chrysanthemums. The flowers bloom in a grid of formal lines and rows. Bright clusters of yellow, earthen amber, pale lilac, crimson, pearl-washed moonlight. Draw her down beneath the petalled rays, beneath the leathery green leaves. Kiss her once – lightly, gently. Swim with her, along the tilled earth. Through miles of sheltering blooms and leaves, as your skin collects the flowers’ perfumed breath.
Swim with her, safe from harm, free of discovery, beneath the flowers, in the subterranean, chrysanthemum sea.
The building is a single story, squat and square with walls made entirely of windows. Situated on the beach, it stares blindly over the great, gray stretch of ocean. Lace-edged waves lap and curl against the sandy shore. All seems tranquil, quiet. Stand before the barrier windows, though, hands pressed to the glass; glance left – the serenity is broken. A killer whale is caught in the shallow water, breached. Taut, sleek ,black and white skin runs with seawater. A pectoral fin lists skyward. The large mouth, arrayed with rows of sharp teeth, hangs slack – a shadowed pink cavern.
Howl an animal cry. For the waste of life. For the selfishness. For callous business decisions and profit margins that disregard the larger picture. For the tangled and interconnected web in which we are all a part. For compassionless, human hubris.
Howl again, in anguish while all those surrounding continue, unpreturbed, with their individual tasks. Heads bent over papers and devices, they remain unaware, detached. Unconcerned for the great creature’s suffering and passing; unmoved by the strangled human wail that issues from amidst their own.
All but one. She approaches. A little girl, wide-eyed and concerned. How old – eight, nine, ten? She feels it, too. The grief. The suffering. But her hand is firm, her touch warm. Her very presence anchors, halves the pain.
It is with a heavy heart that I bear news of Treebeard’s passing. He was felled Wednesday, February 22, 2017. Treebeard was lifelong resident of Greenwood Cemetery, Boonton, and quite possibly, he had made his home there prior to the Cemetery’s establishment in 1876. We became acquainted in his twilight years, twenty-six years ago, and I knew him to be a patient, generous, and forgiving soul. He had seen much in his nearly two centuries. After the loss of a major limb, many years before our first meeting, he sheltered countless families of squirrel’s and birds and insects, without complaint. Concurrent with this limb’s loss, he accepted a vining growth which leant him his moniker. He rooted and grew, suffered and succored. His was a fine example to follow. Though his stump remains to mark his place, I will miss his presence — the green shade of his crown, the length and all-encompassing reach of his shadow; I will miss the song of wind through his leaves, the creak and groan of his massive branches. Rest well, Treabeard. In lieu of flowers, please plant a tree, or nurture and appreciate those you share your life with, whether daily or in passing.
“Treebeard’s Stump” — C.Birde, 2/17
Treebeard’s stump is an impressive 60+ inches across.
“Treebeard’s Midsection” — C.Birde, 2/17
Treebeard’s midsection, measuring over 140 inches in circumference.
“Treebeard’s Cavity” — C.Birde, 2/17
The massive cavity that, doubtless, lead to his undoing.
“Treebeard’s Remains” — C.Birde, 2/17
The trunk of Treebeard lays stacked in Greenwood Cemetery’s center.
