A Ribbon on the Fairy Tree
A Ribbon on the Fairy Tree
I haven't been to Nana's cottage in almost fifteen years. Still, besides the door being half off its hinges and the swallow's nest watching the dust from beneath the exposed center beam, it looks the same as it did when Dad left me here to "find my roots."
Even as a kid, I was smart enough to know better. I let him drink alone to forget about the void in his life where his mother should be.
When I groggily got out of bed the first night to get a drink of water, he told me, "She's gone." There was a strong odor of gin in the apartment. The whites of his eyes were much brighter than the tip of his nose. He cried, prodding his thumbs into his eyes as though to stop the flow.
I knelt at his feet, clutching his shins with my thin cotton nightgown to keep from chilling to death since I was too timid to ask him anything.
My father ran his fingers through my hair after the tears and the gin had dried up. Good girl, Eileen. A rustling sound occurred, and a cool weight was placed against my neck. The locket my mom always wore. A picture of her when she was young was on one side, and a lock of her dark nut-brown hair was on the other. There was some fumbling with the clasp, but Dad managed to get it closed in the end. "She'd be thrilled if you got it."
After a week, I ventured into Nana's home for the first time.
In every way but hair color, Nana was very different from her son. She greeted me with a warm embrace and a dish of gooseberry almond tarts, and I immediately felt at home.
I can almost taste the lingering almond aroma as I stand in her kitchen for the first time since Dad came to get me four months after he'd left me.
Of course, that's only a fanciful thought. The elderly care facility was where Nana spent her final years. My father didn't notify me about her passing until this past summer. I didn't tell him that I was already aware of it. As long ago as I can remember, I stopped trying to contact him. I spent way too much time chatting with my booze.
But he'd called while entirely sober. She gave you the cottage as a parting gift. You remarked how much the land liked you.
That sounds like something she would have said. Every morning I spent with her began with a story about the little people or some obscure fact about a particular tree or bush. My focus was riveted on a single tree. It was in the middle of the rear field by itself, with a small stone wall surrounding its trunk. Strings of fabric, some in vivid hues and others faded to beige by the sun and rain, hung from its prickly branches.
When I inquired about the plant, she said, "It's a hawthorn, a fairy tree." People often tie these ribbons as a form of prayer or desire. Perhaps the little people will listen. Maybe they will respond.
In the months we were together, she respected my need for solitude. Hours were spent outside, meandering along the stream's bank or hiding in the crook of a large oak tree's roots.
I tried to ignore that mom was gone and that dad, if still around, probably cared more about his drink than he did about me. Still, when I was all alone, hiding in the shade of the oak tree, I sometimes felt so lonely that my tears would turn the ground into sour red mud.
Even though I appreciated Nana's help, all I wanted was to be reunited with my mother.
It was that one lonely hawthorn that kept popping into my head. If you hang a ribbon on the fairy tree and make a wish, the little people may listen.
A ribbon was something I lacked. Furthermore, a ribbon will tear and eventually decay, becoming useless.
As I stand in Nana's kitchen beneath the swallow's nest, which is alive with a chorus of little cheeps, my fingers drift to the empty area where mom's locket once hung. Its silver string is the only thing strong enough to contain my deepest yearning.
Nothing ever comes back from the little people. Really, how could they? Mum had passed away, and Ireland was no longer the same place it had been when the myths were created. It's hard to see how the little people make it in this world of concrete and factories.
But in this tiny patch of rural America, Nana had made me believe.
I leave the cottage through the overgrown vegetable garden and head back. The hawthorn tree is still the focal point of the field. Ribbons of various colors still sway in the air.
I make my way down the slope, the dew soaking into my sneakers until I stand beneath the overhanging trees. When a burst of wind disturbs them, I see that mom's locket is still hanging there, just like it was all those years ago.
I scale the stone wall and carefully untangle the chain. No tarnish or other flaws can be seen, which is a pleasant surprise.
I can hardly remember the appearance of the child who was once my mother. I snarl and snap open the locket.
The eyes of a dignified woman meet mine, and I see deep, curved lines over her face that radiate from her gentle grin. The color of my eyes is blue, just like yours. In contrast, the other side's hair, which was initially a nut brown, is now as silvery as the chain.
She was a mother now, something she'd never had before.
In the corners of my eyes, tears have begun to collect.
Like my grandmother's strong fingers did when I was a kid, a breeze scented with gooseberry and almond glides past, brushes the back of my neck, and then disappears.
After carefully snapping the locket shut and fastening it behind my neck, I rest my palm against the rough bark of a hawthorn tree. A heartfelt "Thank you."
I face the cottage again, wiping my eyes to dry them. There is much that needs to be accomplished.
It's nice to be back in familiar territory.
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