Bingo 1,2
The Forest
She would have this recurring dream as a child. She was wandering in the middle of this lush green forest. A canopy of leaves overhead filtered out most of the sunlight but still there is moss everywhere. She'd always thought plants needed light to grow but it comes to her that maybe sometimes things can grow in the dark, when it's hard to see. That in spite of everything going against it, life can flourish where no one thought it could. Beauty can exist where everyone said it was impossible. And it is beautiful. She walks until she finds a big tree and nestles herself at it's base. A few bugs crawl nearby but never on her. She rubs her bare feet over the soft ground and listens. Somewhere there are birds chirping. Flying. Rustling through the leaves. She can almost understand them. Almost. But she's tired and she lies down, sliding herself under an arching root for shelter. It's cool but not cold and she feels safe. Her head nestles against the soft ground. She wants to close her eyes but doesn't. Instead she stares out, watching the life of the forest go by. Wind rustles through the top layer of the canopy. A raven swoops down and settles nearby, tilting it's head left and right, taking her all in. Watching her. And she would watch it back, mimicking it's head movements as best she could while prone on the ground. It never makes a sound, even when it stretches out it's wings, fluttering them for a moment. She reaches out and her hand passes through it. But the bird just keeps watching. And when it opens it's beak in what would, in any other place or time, be a cry she is amazed as she hears song. It is one note and many notes. It is haunting. It fills the forest and everything stills, everything stops and listens and weeps. Tears tumble down from the branches and the droplets land on her cheek... one. Two. Three.
She always wakes up on the third drop. Sometimes she knows it's going to happen and tries to cover her face, roll over, just so she can keep listening. The third drop always lands. But sometimes, when she fights it long enough, the raven comes over and rubs it's head against her. And she can feel it. It's real and it's comforting and she doesn't know why but she smiles and she cries and that is what wakes her. She would lie awake still able to feel the fine feathers on her skin, long after the sensation of the moss has disappeared. Long after the cold tears from the trees have left her sense memory. Those times she wakes up with damp cheeks and the song resonating in her mind. She would stare up at the ceiling and it would fill the space between her and the dull popcorn above her head. And she tried to stay awake, forcing her eyelids open because the song would go away and she doesn't want to. It is a lullaby and when she drifts off again she is never back in the forest. And when she wakes up again she can never remember the melody.
Once, as a young teenager, she told the dream to her grandparents while she was visiting them. They each cried silent tears. In her heart she knew what it meant even before then. She didn't need the words to be spoken. She didn't need a translation. That night she dreamed again that she was in the forest. She sat by the tree and looked up, waiting. Knowing. And it came down from the canopy and sat beside her but it would not sing. The wind never blew, the tears never fell. She and the bird merely watched each other.
It was goodbye. And for as many times as she closed her eyes and hoped to go back she never did. The forest, the raven, and his lullaby left her.
But some nights, just before she drifts off to sleep, she can still feel that moss beneath her cheek. And she cries.
She would have this recurring dream as a child. She was wandering in the middle of this lush green forest. A canopy of leaves overhead filtered out most of the sunlight but still there is moss everywhere. She'd always thought plants needed light to grow but it comes to her that maybe sometimes things can grow in the dark, when it's hard to see. That in spite of everything going against it, life can flourish where no one thought it could. Beauty can exist where everyone said it was impossible. And it is beautiful. She walks until she finds a big tree and nestles herself at it's base. A few bugs crawl nearby but never on her. She rubs her bare feet over the soft ground and listens. Somewhere there are birds chirping. Flying. Rustling through the leaves. She can almost understand them. Almost. But she's tired and she lies down, sliding herself under an arching root for shelter. It's cool but not cold and she feels safe. Her head nestles against the soft ground. She wants to close her eyes but doesn't. Instead she stares out, watching the life of the forest go by. Wind rustles through the top layer of the canopy. A raven swoops down and settles nearby, tilting it's head left and right, taking her all in. Watching her. And she would watch it back, mimicking it's head movements as best she could while prone on the ground. It never makes a sound, even when it stretches out it's wings, fluttering them for a moment. She reaches out and her hand passes through it. But the bird just keeps watching. And when it opens it's beak in what would, in any other place or time, be a cry she is amazed as she hears song. It is one note and many notes. It is haunting. It fills the forest and everything stills, everything stops and listens and weeps. Tears tumble down from the branches and the droplets land on her cheek... one. Two. Three.
She always wakes up on the third drop. Sometimes she knows it's going to happen and tries to cover her face, roll over, just so she can keep listening. The third drop always lands. But sometimes, when she fights it long enough, the raven comes over and rubs it's head against her. And she can feel it. It's real and it's comforting and she doesn't know why but she smiles and she cries and that is what wakes her. She would lie awake still able to feel the fine feathers on her skin, long after the sensation of the moss has disappeared. Long after the cold tears from the trees have left her sense memory. Those times she wakes up with damp cheeks and the song resonating in her mind. She would stare up at the ceiling and it would fill the space between her and the dull popcorn above her head. And she tried to stay awake, forcing her eyelids open because the song would go away and she doesn't want to. It is a lullaby and when she drifts off again she is never back in the forest. And when she wakes up again she can never remember the melody.
Once, as a young teenager, she told the dream to her grandparents while she was visiting them. They each cried silent tears. In her heart she knew what it meant even before then. She didn't need the words to be spoken. She didn't need a translation. That night she dreamed again that she was in the forest. She sat by the tree and looked up, waiting. Knowing. And it came down from the canopy and sat beside her but it would not sing. The wind never blew, the tears never fell. She and the bird merely watched each other.
It was goodbye. And for as many times as she closed her eyes and hoped to go back she never did. The forest, the raven, and his lullaby left her.
But some nights, just before she drifts off to sleep, she can still feel that moss beneath her cheek. And she cries.