Roots of Love and Loss

For two decades, nobody dared to buy or enter the house. The town whispered tales of how they always knew something was off with the past owners. That they simply never voiced their opinions. But those people only know the partial truth. The snippets of information they could drag out of the police reports, some drama passed on by the nosy neighbors. Every person has their theories about what happened. I am the sole one who knows the entire story. 

Four hands planted me with the promise of a love ever growing. As my seeds fell into the backyard of a suburban home, a man and woman vowed to “love each other forever”. They danced the nights away in my garden, sharing kisses under the gleaming moonlight. As my trunk sprouted, so did their affections. In five years, as my branches took hold, they kissed under my protection. Surrounded by two families, dressed in a suit and a gown, I commemorated their promise to love one another till death do them part.

Soon, four hands became six when a beautiful baby boy joined the family. My calm life transformed into one of joyous chaos. Days of picnics and a child yelling “You’re it!” replaced the nights of slow dancing. My favorite time during those junior years was when the boy and the woman would play this one particular game. The woman would carefully cover her eyes with her hands and start counting down. Immediately, the boy would flee and attempt to hide from the woman. His go-to spot to mask his location was right behind my trunk, embracing me with his arms. During that time, I reached full mast, my branches full and powerful. My leaves bent over the house, embracing the boy in a gesture that conveyed, “I will protect you.” 

I foolishly believed that joyous chaos would endure. The turmoil started with a conversation I overheard late at night: “Honey, the doctor told me I won’t be able to get pregnant again”. After that, the man became absent from my garden. He withdrew from the games, kept to himself, only emerging late in the nights. Silently, he would sneak through my domain and leave through the back gate. When the rays of morning light surfaced, he would return, stumbling over his own legs as if they were trying to plant themselves in the ground like my roots. A shell of his former self. 

The woman noticed his unusual patterns. Within the time that my leaves fell and grew back, whispers of loving forever turned into shouts and fights of “how could you”. The woman screamed at the man: “Do you even love me anymore?” He answered with silence. During those perilous nights when the house erupted with sobs and cries, the boy would run outside to my garden to escape. He hugged me as he did in that game. No longer hiding for fun, but cowering away from necessity. I wished dearly that I had arms made of flesh and blood. That I could hold him and tell him he was safe with me. 

Eventually, the house would grow still with a promise to “stay together for our child”. I still don’t know which was worse: the explosion of feelings, or the unsettling silence tinged with the tension of unspoken conversations. Soon, the backyard grew desolate with visitors. The woman retired to her room indefinitely, her eyes absent of the light that had once lit them. The boy would leave early in the mornings, only coming back at night to sleep before escaping the house again the next day. I yearned for his company. My leaves wilted in defeat, devoid of love.

That’s not to say I was completely alone. Sometimes, the man would come outside during the day to visit me. He would go over to his tool shed, take out an axe, and stare at me while consideration passed over his eyes. Threateningly, he would lightly tap the axe on my body before spitting on the ground in front of me. I was at his mercy. Yet, no matter how many times he conducted this routine, he would always eventually return the axe to the shed.

As the years passed, I watched through the windows as the boy slowly grew into a young man. His arms and legs got longer, his face more defined. But I knew that although he now appeared strong, there was a distinct sadness in his eyes forged from his past. Because both his parents were absent, he had to raise himself. Take care of his mother, who had lost the will to live. I would try to call out to him at night, shake my leaves and branches in the wind, trying to say “remember you have me”. I may not be human, but I believed myself to be his true parent. He was my son.

I almost gave up on ever seeing my son up close again. Then, when I least expected it on a night only a season later, he entered my garden. But he wasn’t alone. He clasped a hand I didn’t recognize, a hand belonging to another boy. Within those moonlit hours, those two danced like the woman and man did so long ago. From that night on, they would steal kisses from each other behind my trunk. I could protect them. My leaves grew anew — full of life. In the most uncertain circumstances, love had found its way into my garden once again. 

I relished seeing the two boys together, watching them form an unbreakable bond. But I failed in my duties. One night, before the two had come out to perform their usual ritual, the old man snuck out of my garden through the back door. He had given up these night endeavors long ago, no longer needing to hide his addiction, but that night was his wedding anniversary.

The boys entered my garden, and I pleaded for them to return to the safety of the house. As the moon shone, the two engaged in their usual actions, not paying attention to their surroundings. They had grown comfortable. Safe. They no longer hid their love behind my trunk that could obscure them.  

I watched as the garden door slowly opened; the man entered. He was in a state worse than he had ever been before. Like a beast, saliva ran out of his mouth, his eyes shining bloodshot red. I frantically tried to signal the boys, violently shaking my branches and forcing my leaves to fall unnaturally. But they were out of my reach. I couldn’t protect them.

As the man took in the sight of his son kissing a man, he clenched his fists and started shaking. He stood there for a minute in silence. Then leaves crunched under his feet and he walked to the tooth shed, pulling out the axe he threatened me with. I tried to scream RUN AWAY. The boys couldn’t understand. Within seconds, the man started swinging. The first hit landed on the other boy, who let out a blood-curdling scream that sunk deep into my wood. My son tackled his father, removing the axe from his grip, while the other boy ran to the open gate — looking back in hesitation before escaping.

As the two wrestled, the woman who had remained in her room for years exited for the first time, alarmed by the scream in the backyard. She saw her husband choking her son, the axe on the ground. She rushed outside barefoot to stop him. Her eyes glowed in the night as she tried to pull her husband off her boy. This maneuver backfired: she lost her grip and fell onto her back. Without hesitation, the man threw his son down and grabbed the axe, bringing it down on his wife.

Far in the distance, sirens rang out. The man looked up before looking back down at his blood covered hands, realizing what he had done. He quickly stumbled out of the garden, the axe dropping from his hands for the last time. Within a minute, his car engine rumbled as he fled the scene.

Only the sounds of grasshoppers remained. My son clambered over to his mother and carefully dragged her over to me. The place where she had always found him hiding so many years ago. He stroked her hair as tears fell down his face. I looked upon them, wishing once again that I had anthropomorphic features. That I could have saved her, taken her spot as the sacrifice. The curse of plant hood was forever being separated from the human world, unable to interact and change their stories. But the impossible happened that night. With the love and grief of a family destroyed, the boy let go of his mother to hug me. A connection surged between us. 

When the police arrived, the light of morning was only beginning to stream in. On the police report, they noted what they found: an open gate, an axe, and the body of a woman resting underneath two trees. Her son missing. 

No human dared enter the house or garden in the years to come. Only two decades later did a man enter my domain after purchasing the house, making his way over to where I stood. As he came closer, I recognized him. Although his features were more mature, it was the boy that my son had kissed on that fateful night twenty years ago. He hugged the tree next to me, my son, and whispered “I’m sorry”.