Deeply Rooted
Where is home?
At the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where a cream colonial house sits on an acre of lush grass. Where, amidst aged black oaks and red maples, a nascent Japanese cherry tree buds along the yard’s back edge. Planted by my father in honor of my birth, our timelines expand from the same starting point, each seasonal bloom a love song to my own quiet beginnings.
Where is home?
At the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where manicured hedges circle a wide-open lawn. Where, at eight years old, I stand in a floral rayon dress holding an Easter basket and posing for doting parents before a blooming Japanese cherry tree. Its pink, spring-kissed blossoms sway on willowy branches like church bells, silent prayers for what we might both become.
Where is home?
At the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where a sprinkler head turns wildly across soaked grass on scorching August days, unlocking laughter of brother and sister running through the flow. Where a Japanese cherry tree witnesses our joy from along the perimeter. Its green canopy grows full, like burgeoning hips in adolescence establishing their place in the world.
Where is home?
At the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where the air is quieting. Where my empty childhood bedroom looks out onto a muted green lawn. Where a Japanese cherry tree, tucked away in the back nook, lets its golden leaves dance in the autumn wind one last time before letting them go for winter.
Where is home?
At the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where overgrown hedges hide an oasis of yesteryears. Where invasive vines climb across firm ground before braiding themselves in the thick branches of a Japanese cherry tree, weakening its resolve. Where webs of plaque travel similar journeys in my mother’s mind, choking memories we created here. Where cancer takes its grip on my father’s aging body. Where wars wage between what is, once was, and what we wish would be. Where we battle. Where we are squeezed. Where we let go. Where we hold on.
Where is home?
In the memories at the corner of Union St. and Clinton Ave., where a Japanese cherry tree once towered like a protective sister in the far corners of the sprawling lot. Where her roots still run deep, but her cascading branches are phantom limbs, taken by converging storms of wind and time. But where tiny, new offshoots spring from below the pruned, sappy stubs, holding tight flowers waiting to bloom again. Waiting to sing new love songs. Waiting to release new prayers for what might become.
Kimberly Goode is a writer based in Seattle, WA. When she is not creating, she enjoys listening to the songs of birds and dancing down the aisles of grocery stores to music that too often goes unnoticed. Her work has appeared in River Teeth, Crosscut, Dillydoun Review, and South Seattle Emerald.
