She is the Tree of Life

The Rowan tree rises out of fertile soil in their backyard and her mother, looking at this little red headed baby, names her daughter after the Tree of Life.

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Now, mother has passed her paints, her hands over to her daughter. Her daughter, who chooses  an endless palette of green. Who limits herself with verdancy. Who held one hand open to her  mother.

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Her mother. Her mother who fears the unnatural. Who pushes her daughter away from radiation. Mother places a brush in Rowan’s hand and wraps their fingers together. They laugh. And Rowan creates.

 

She only paints hands.

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She walks away from the rigidity. She prioritizes creation. It’s a challenge but she embraces it.

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Rowan laughs. She’s not into food but she takes a final drive for pizza, for apple pie. She’s afraid  this makes her common, boring; she ducks her head at the thought. She’s not. She’s haloed by the  New Mexico flag and she’s driving into the sunset with sour beer and a manic desire to create.

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She dreams of her grandmother’s green leather purse. She dreams of her father, gone for so long.  He only returns to bake. She dreams of foreign countrysides, green rolling hills, small town pubs,  and the love between two people. She dreams of a home, filled with laughter and love, and she  gives herself the worst room in the house.

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She drives her plants across state lines. They are both, girl and plant, silhouetted by the sun,  shining in bright light. She provides. Her father mailed her determination. She saw him standing,  far away, with his feet in the soil and Rowan grew roots of her own.