You Were a Vine
When He took you from me He promised you would become a flower. Any flower I chose. I thought of your resilience, remembered the times you should have caved but didn’t. When you ran, far before you walked, you wanted to jump. So you did.
I never gave you up willingly. I held on for dear life, squeezed you so tight to me your tiny hands dug into my arms. Hugged your body to mine, allowing just enough air to breathe. You fought too. You pushed through side effects to play in the sun. When the sick tried to take over, you braced yourself against the tree in our backyard, determined to climb.
You were no flower. You were a vine. I asked Him to make you Wisteria.
So we fought together until you could no longer fight. You passed, and I raged. Anger and despair mixed within me, a concoction so powerful I forgot to live. I spent hours in your room, surrounded by the fading scent of your wispy brown hair and sweaty body. I banged my fists against the grass, tearing at the weeds as if they were at fault. I tried to climb that tree in your honor, determined to put the pictures your chubby fingers drew on your favorite branch.
You’d made it look so easy. I fell to the ground, wrenching my ankle. The trunk supporting me; I thought of you there, wishing only your ankle had broken, something we could repair. My tears sunk into the dirt, disappearing with the earth to mix with you.
It was in that spot you appeared. Wisteria inched up the tree, climbed and spread in ways you couldn’t, wrapping around the branches as you once wrapped yourself around me, craving the stability of family. I laughed as I ran my fingers through your hair once more, giving you water and food for years while you consumed the yard we shared.
We stayed together until I, too, could no longer fight. Then I joined you, circling my arms in yours until the strength of our reunion reached the sky.