on the steadfastness of maple trees.       *

This is not easy to say.

Sometimes I sit myself down outside on the bench near my home, and stare up into the tree branches, and cry. I cry because someday, another woman will sit on that bench; I will change into her, and never again be who I am at that moment. Some things about myself will be the same, but my skin will wither and draw out into so much used space; but my eyes will cloud with grey, having been spent on too many sights; but my lips will droop downwards, and become surrounded by creases and scars; but my hands will fold across my legs more slowly, and my fingers will interfold more rigidly, until the mere task of clasping my hands together has become laboured and tiring. And what will that woman look on? Will the trees still sway with ease and pride? Or will her dimmed eyes look on a sadder being, one with gnarled branches of washed-out muddy brown, and scant leaves outlined against a sombre, ashen sky?

I cry and cry, and that is the one constant as I grow along with my two maple trees. Ever will I patiently admire their grace, even to my dying day, if I be still here. And ever will their endurance send me to tears, because I have not the strength to stand, as they do, tirelessly, without respite, without error, without laughter and without tears.