Vitis Vinifera

There’s woodland the little girl goes to when she can’t think, or maybe when she doesn’t want to think for herself, when she’s sad. The same forest owned by a folklore; the story acting as a rumour, the forest is cared for by a young boy with a straw sunhat that always appears to topple over his head in just the perfect angle, where the sun cradles his face perfectly to allow darkness to shield him. He keeps the forest green.

Vitis Vinifera, European grapes hang from light wooden pallets leaning against trees, a pallet strung above to hang overhead from gritted rope, tied to sore branches. Grapes hang from between the gaps of each pallet.

As the little girl walks through the woodland, she whispers, “hello tree, hello grass, hello bird” just as she did the first time she greeted the soil. She approaches the grapevine garden she has gotten to know all too well, and sits in the center between the leaning palettes and just under the hanging. She is only four, but old enough to know her father would rip the handmade garden apart at the sight of the Vitis Vinifera, just to store it away just to fill a glass years from now.

She fiddles with her mint green bows placed one after another going down her hair. She is careful not to dishevel her hair, for the trade of knowing dirt would find home on her bottom. Between each bow, her hair is flared to make the perfect appearance for a business man's family. She has grown fond of each of her bows, naming them from head to her waist; Alice, Olivia and Emma. They are her best friends; Alice, Olivia, Emma and the grapevine. She  continues to whisper, “hello grapes, hello grapevine!” That is when the forest whispers back.

“Hello, Amelia.” It was a comforting bellow, not enough to shake the leaves but loud enough for the butterflies to hear. She looked up as yellow and blue polished butterflies flailed into the sky as if they had been summoned all at once.

“I’m not happy,” Amelia whispers while tangling her finger with weeds that were itching her legs when she sat down at the clearing.

“Would you be happy if there were more flowers?” the trees roared over the wind. She remained silent, but gave the slightest nod. 

“I like red,” she said, as she pointed directly to open greenery.

“If you bring me a blanket, I shall grow you a red flower,” the forest echoed quietly as the birds thrashed. She stood silently, as she grunted to her feet and nodded before shaking off loose dirt from her skirt.

The following day she strolled through the forest, trailing a blanket behind her heels. She murmured hello to all apparent objects of the forest. The blanket grazed against the grass with each step she took until she reached the grapevine garden. That’s how the forest knew she was there. She laid it flat on the clearing and sat upon it, lifting the edges of the blanket as if to show the forest what she had brought. As she looked up, she saw a red flower at the center of the green and smiled.

“How pretty,” she whispered as she walked to it, her heart felt warmer the closer she approached it. She admired it for several minutes.

“If you bring me a hairbrush, I shall grow you a purple flower,” the wind whistled in response. Amelia blew a kiss at the red flower and another towards the sky before treading off through the forest once again.

The following day, she approached the grapevine with a hairbrush in hand and placed it on her blanket at the clearing. Standing, she pointed at a nearby tree and said, “for you,” and approached a wooden palette, knocked on the wood gently before plunking a handful of grapes off the vine, “and for me.” A butterfly fluttered past her as she fumbled grapes into her mouth. She followed it to a purple flower placed diagonally from the red flower, across the path. She approached it slowly, feeling warmth spread from her heart to her toes.

“If you bring me your favorite toy, I shall grow you a blue flower,” she heard the leaves dance. She sang a song as she walked out of the forest, both in high pitch and low.

The next day, Amelia was dressed in a yellow shirt and skirt, patterned with white dots and a circular pin on the left of her chest that read happy birthday. She carried a plastic egg, slice of bread, and watermelon that she was careful to balance on her plastic red plate. As she clanked her toy plate of food to her blanket, she felt the forest aww in response.

“I love to cook food in my kitchen, I made you a plate,” Amelia said proudly, “this is my favorite.” She sets her index finger on the slice of bread. She stood up and walked in search of her blue flower, that sat, hugging a tree trunk. She crouched down, hands on her knees, to smell the flower before letting out a contagious giggle. The birds echoed her laugh in unison while she walked out of the forest.

The next day, the forest did not ask for anything at all, she approached the grapevine's path, following the smell of something familiar. Her mouth watered at the smell. On her blanket was her plastic plate with fresh peppered eggs, toast and a few pieces of fruit and the plastic foods tossed to the side. She clutched a piece of notebook paper in her hand, a drawing of a tree. She stood in the clearing and held the paper up with both hands and danced in a circle, as if to show the forest what she had drawn for it. The wind roared. She approached a palette that leaned against a tree and shoved it between the grapevine, and sat down, taking bites of her meal.

“Wouldn’t you like to stay, Amelia?” seemed to whisper the trees. She remained in silence, taking mouthfuls off scrambled eggs with her hand.

“I have grown you a garden of flowers; red, purple and blue. The forest kept happy and green. You have brought what you need to sleep, to keep, and to play. You won’t be sad anymore.”

Amelia smiled and nodded, “can I have some grapes?” The leaves on the grapevine moved in the wind, to invite her for a vine or two.

“But you must keep the secrets of the forest hidden,” the forest pleaded, and she nodded once again in agreement. She laid down on her blanket to rest on her full stomach. She laid stomach down, her arms crossed under her head, serving as a pillow. The temperature was warm, the canopy opened just enough for the sun to glisten over the grapevine and the blanket. It felt as though the sun hugged her whilst she drifted off to sleep. “My lips are sealed,” she murmured. 

The trees supporting each palette began to tremble subtly, birds from the branches left to mount more stable branches. Roots beneath the trees began to surface, dirt tumbling off each root as they gained their footing. The forest masked the sound with branches cracking, leaves snapping in streams of wind. The roots coasted just above the surface to reach her feet. Within seconds roots wrapped themselves around her ankles, coiling themselves up her calves. Not far behind the roots, between each coil, moss creates a sheath over her skin, making her green; comforting her body as she sleeps, The roots make their way up her back, creating a spiral on her shoulders before cradling the center of her neck. The green has nearly sheltered her entire body, when flowers began to scatter across the moss starting at her feet.The moss wrapped around her mouth several times before becoming still, and the sheath swallowed her. 

The next day, a young boy with a straw sunhat came to the grapevine with an empty woven basket. His face in the shadows, he picked up a brush, a handful of toys and a blanket, folded neatly into the basket. The forest hummed in rapture. He got on one knee, placed his straw hat on the new rise of the clearing and laid his palm flat on the soil beside it. “Our lips are sealed,” he mutters.