Winter was slow to give up the ghost as Spring quietly emerged with each lengthened day. Buds, once held in the grip of frigid temperatures, were beginning to stipple color on the young tree planted outside the east facing window of the small one-room home in the wooded mountains. Morning’s coral sunbeams slowly stepped across the mountaintop and punctuated each slice of key-lime green that decorated the tree branches. The crown of the tree, stretching heavenward, was made home by a cooing dove watching guard over the nest being crafted in a crevice of the trunk, below. Soon, Summer would paint fire in the sky and babies would leave that nest and fly.

Despite how deep it was in March, winds battered the tree with fury as snowflakes, speckled by the sunlight, swirled in the chaos of the ominous, gray clouds set on eclipsing the dawn’s warming light. It was late in the season for snow, but moisture was a welcomed sight considering the tree was putting down roots and needed all the watering that Mother Nature would supply.

Like an unwelcome guest, the crisp, chilly air crawled beneath the weathered, wooden door of the hovel in the holler. It was a howl that wouldn’t abate and its unrelenting whistle screamed like a tea-kettle, boiling-hot. Snowfall called for a fire and the woodpile beside the hearth was always stocked with fresh cut wood and kindling from the thicket across the way.

Set mostly in the shadows, sunlight fell for but a few short hours on the regrowth at the base of the mountain. The land was just as unkept as Marla who’d let nature take it’s course after the devastation left behind from the summer wildfires years ago. Whatever happened to grow there in the remnants did serve a purpose being split by the iron of the axe to keep her humble shack warm enough during the long winter seasons that she strove to endure. She dwelt there with sadness for her only company, but she was a survivor and would see to it that she lived to mark another year and watch her Maple tree flourish.

Hours passed as did the storm and the snowfall melted under the shimmering sun. The ground drank in the nourishment left behind as condensation spilled upon the rough wood of the window sill where

its beaded pools slowly slipped down the broken, single-pane glass like tears.

With a shuffle in her footsteps, Marla gathered her tattered flannel beneath her palm and wiped the frosted window with her sleeve. She peered through the small oval frame of weeping optics to watch the splintered rays of the slipping sunlight kiss the freckled leaves upon her tree. The ashen hues of the colorless sky broke her reflective gaze and she rose from the rocking chair to place another log on the fire.

The flames crackled and cawed like crows, even as the voices inside her head had long mocked her. For she cared for the tiny maple bud from its small inception, but cared not for herself for so long. She stabbed at the fire with the poker, fighting to silence the inferno that grew in her mind.

She’d see to it that her tree grew, rooted and strong with resilience to weather any storm, despite how marred and sullied her past and present reminded her that she once was. And, someday, when her daughter returned home, like the prodigal son, they’d dwell in its shade from the heat of the sun.

She sat back down in her rocker and hummed to herself as the creaking wood brought a subtle solace to her soul. She closed her eyes and the images of her daugther’s struggles shuddered against the second of peace she’d felt. She closed her eyes again and remembered the days that she’d rocked her baby girl in that chair. She feared to contemplate what it would take to finally bring her daughter home, alive.

Like every night before, she whispered her plea out loud and held to the hope that was tangible in the air — like spring awakening from winter, fire yielding warmth, and like love, deeply rooted:

“The fire may rage

and

the winters will come,

but together

we’ll drink in

the tears of the sun.

Replanting our love

where the thickets and thorns

find the blade of the axe

with the

shame and the scorn”

Who are you, my child?

Your love is sincere.

It extends even

to those that hurt you.

I don't understand

where you get your strength.

Pay it forward. I

will follow your steps.

I would tell them that they always could come to me. Always.

And I would treat them with respect. I would acknowledge them, but avoid piling responsibilitie on them.

For a long time, things like that were all I wanted. Just once, I'd like to make my day.

My son, who I love unconditionally with all my heart, is JUST like me. Same shyness, same piercing look, even the same small gap in his front teeth. When his personality first began to emerge, I realized that...I could never be my own best friend. He and I, we’re both too damn stubborn. We both need to be right all the time. We ask questions - so, so many questions. We both laugh at the same things (at the same time) and we butt heads constantly. We’re both too afraid to step out and try new