rooted

rooted close up s

I am looking for the parts of me I have lost. Where are they?

The invisible ones, I mean. Not the bones beneath skin, the blood red pulsing, not even the magic helix—no, the stuff that I can only sense inside my thoughts—the currents that should contain all those things that have lived through me, leaving their imprints on my past, on my wishes and dreams, on the choices I have yet to make.

My emptiness continues without plan or path. I recross myself and return over and over to the places I imagine I have already been.

Something sparkles in the branches, catching my attention. I glimpse light moving, connecting one thread to another, forming patterns.  I breathe in my existence.

They have been waiting for me, kept in trust for my return—these memories were left here with the trees.

This is in response to another old photo prompt of Sue Vincent’s (above), from May.  I did the art but never wrote anything to go with it.  Merril’s prosery prompt at dVerse, to use Jo Harjo’s words, “These memories were left here with the trees” in 144 words of prose, reminded me of the photo, so I pulled out the painting again.

rooted s

 

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