Microfiction
Yggdrasill
The tree had been in the yard for as long as I could remember. Countless summer days climbing its branches; we used to imagine the seed pods were grenades when we were playing. We would spend endless autumn afternoons raking the leaves, jumping in the piles, and raking them up again. I used to stare at its bare skeleton during the winter months, examining every empty stick. Sometimes I would lie beneath it and try to form images with the negative space between the branches. In spring I would try to find the first leaf bud. The tree had always been there for me, until I wasn’t there for it.
The tree had been in the yard for as long as I could remember. Countless summer days climbing its branches; we used to imagine the seed pods were grenades when we were playing. We would spend endless autumn afternoons raking the leaves, jumping in the piles, and raking them up again. I used to stare at its bare skeleton during the winter months, examining every empty stick. Sometimes I would lie beneath it and try to form images with the negative space between the branches. In spring I would try to find the first leaf bud. The tree had always been there for me, until I wasn’t there for it.