Haven

I know every stone on this pathway. Every twist and turn of dirt. I know every dip and ravine in this small bush. Every wet creek lapping at the moss.

          I walk this pathway every morning. It’s the shortcut to my town, connecting my desolate farmland to cars and shops and people. I go to work, collecting papercuts from the dusty library books, and I take them home through the pathway, letting the wood of the trees kiss them better.

I used to think the small bush was magical. It certainly holds an energy of its own. You enter, and you can feel the life humming around you, you can hear it in the buzzing of crickets, smell it in the wildflowers that grow here, and the eucalyptus.

         I could ride my bike to get through here quicker like I did when I was in school. Back then, it felt like the small bush was chasing me, every shadow held an evil man with a knife or a crazed woman with a gun. I’d pedal through every winding corner, feeling the cold breath of the ghosts at the back of my neck, only safe until I was skidding down my driveway.

        Now I like closing my eyes and feeling the motion of wandering all through my body. There’s the tree that I hid behind when my mum tried to make me do the dishes, years ago. Here’s the bark beneath my feet that gave me my first splinter. Under the sun that is interrupted by leaves is where I bathed in childhood and lost the cold of other people.

       Back then, I was terrified of darkness and lived jumping out of my own skin. Now I like the cool of the shade and welcome the reprieve from the socializing, the interactions, the smiles that prick at my skin. Where is my safety, if not alone, without a tree trunk to anchor me? The prospect of sunlight, unfiltered, hitting my cheeks is enough to slow my pace and quicken my breaths.

       Once, my mum took me to the next town over to buy oranges. She wanted to make freshly squeezed orange juice and had heard about the brilliant crop just a fifteen-minute drive away. The drive there made my stomach hate itself and I leaned my head back just enough relieve my back, wincing as we turned another sharp corner. When we got to the farm, there were paddocks just like ours and sheep that gazed plaintively over the fence at me as I sat down to put my head between my knees. Those were turns in the road that made me long for my sanctuary; there was no relief from movement and no filtering of feeling.

        I heaved but nothing except a thin line of saliva dribbled down my chin. My mum was there with me, I remember, she pats my back the way a mother would to a newborn child. I remembered her shadow looming over me, shielding me from the claws on sunlight. When I was steady enough to stand up, we walked to the spot where a couple of people were reaching across baskets of oranges.            We bought a couple and I brace myself for the journey back home where my stomach betrayed me once again. The journey wasn’t even worth it, the orange was a tad too sour and the skin was too hard.

      “Mum, we should plant our own,” I said as I spat out the seed of the orange into my palm.

      “It’s not that easy, our backyard’s too small,”

       But I know a place.

       I sat by it now. The seed that was once in the pit of the ripe fruit, now resting within my palm. I stuck a thumb into the soil and placed the seed in.

      Watching the earth takes patience. There’s an awful lot of waiting before that first tender, tendril springs into the air. But when it does it was really not what I expected. Sure, It’s an orange tree. But that’s it. I envisioned the moment they grew and I proudly grabbed mum to show her. I could picture the pride in her eyes, not quite believing her own daughter could create such a marvel. That was until         I actually saw it and realized it was just a tree. And an ugly one at that. I had ruined my beautiful haven with my creation, it didn’t fit in here. Too bright for one thing. I loved this place for its unassuming mess of plants and flowers.

      Why had I gone and changed it?