In the hidden grove sits a girl. She is younger than many her age and as old as she needs to be. Sitting in her ankle length dress, both legs curve and curl to one side. The girl’s long hair reaches down, holding her upright. She blows dandelions and picks flower petals, playing games of love-me-not with herself.
In that grove, she listens. At times, from afar she hears a cacophony. Turbulence, pollution and city life abide. Conserving, she waits patiently for someone. Through storm, mud and spider bites, she is preserving herself. As best she can, she waits it out. Sitting up with her curved spine, she has fine posture.
In the grove, she watches clouds. Past the sparse canopy, she watches the white wisps fly by. Memorizing their randomness, she herself learns. In the distance, voices can be heard. She hides behind a boulder from the people passing by. They laugh, they cry and they yell, while the girl hugs the large rock tight.
Amidst the trees, she stumbles around. This small domain she will never remember. It’s not a home the girl will make. Navigating the same trees for the first time is what’s most comfortable. She idles stretched out across roots, but she’s ready to be carried away. If not by a friend, maybe by the wind one day.
Among the weeds, she’s thinking. The girl was not born here, whether she would pass here was unclear as well. In her solitude, it was often unclear if she was the guardian angel of this grove or sent there to be a friend of flowers. In a space between places and a time between dates, but the boundaries of the grove were still unclear to her. She feared leaving on accident, but the boundaries weren’t there.
Covered in leaves, she’s sleeping. She sleeps when she pleases. Sometimes, it’s by the light of night that she goes about her day. Whether the light’s from a nearby city or the stars above, it’s enough. Illuminated in the darkness, she’s rolling around in the brush. Polling herself as she rolls, it’s hard to tell if it’s fun or not. She had to do something all those long nights and days.
In the moist dirt, she’s crawling. The girl sees many animals pass through. Deer, foxes and weasels meander. They orbit through the region and the girl watches them. She wonders sometimes if the loon stepping through was the one she had been waiting for. Maybe if she could make like the loon, it would usher her out. She’s still waiting.
In the open grove, she’s lying. A girl approaches the grove, humming calmly. The girl jolts up to hide behind her boulder. As the girl walks into the grove, she doesn’t disturb her. She’s clinging onto the rock, beginning to cry. Walking around the pathways formed by her footprints, she smiles. She’s the same height, though the girl is noticeably taller.
In the bygone grove, she cries. For a time, she idles there; weeping as she walks. The time comes and she goes up. Hugging her waist, she leans her head on her shoulder as the tears dry up. There’s a harmonious warmth spreading through her as she leaves. The sun is low on the horizon as she crosses the threshold.