Insignificance

She lie down on the morning grass, covered with shimmering flecks of dew, born of soft mist. So insignificant. She stared at a single drop, we are sisters, you and I, she thought. What would it matter if I were to wretch the blade on which you linger from the ground? Have I not destroyed dozens more with my mere presence here? Who would mourn for you? A butterfly? A seedling perhaps, for lack of shade. I will leave you though, perhaps sweet company you will be awhile.1

She glanced up, waiting for another. Perhaps he does not remember, or more likely does not care. She had sworn this date for its purpose, unless he did return, but she would wait. the sun had yet to rise and time was precious. Only the oak trees new how.2

Observing their worn faces she would have cried for lack of tears. How beautiful! how used you are! You stand and shade the grass, encourage the dew, and shadow me. Bearing fruit only to be stolen. Then when the fancy strikes some young gent, you are cut down. Slaughtered without a thought and then, only in death are you admired. On display in pieces for some arrogant diplomat. If only then you still had your majestic branches, to catch thy foe between the eyes! Alas, there is no dignity in death, but only dieing. And who doth miss you? Only I, I think, and I do not matter. Only them and only they. And only him to me. 3

She thought then, of her own death, she was not as important as the oak tree. No use was she to men, she loved only one, and would not love any other. He it seemed, did not return the love. She, if not by, fire or by wind, would die of old age, alone in her bed. How long until they would find her ? O r would they at all? If the windows were left open they would at least, carry her away to escape the smell. Was that when she would be noticed? Only when her rotting flesh did bother the powdered noses of ladies, or its stench interrupt the business of high men? She would not let it be so. They did not want her, and she did not want them, that was fine enough. But if only he did want her, things would be so different. So many if ‘onlys’ in her life, she could recall each one, but this would be the last. She would make that sure. 4

The sun had poked its blushing nose over the horizon and  light poured from its mouth like milk into coffee. Turning parts of the inky sky to pink and yellow. Only it would witness her death. Only the sun, the oak trees, and the dew.5

She looked to the nearest oak tree and smiled. I’m going to use you once more, my friend, she thought. Do not fret, my flesh will repay you, I promise. She stood and walked toward the tree, settling herself among the roots. It seemed that as she sat all of her burdens fell away. “It’s all right now” she whispered, lifting a vial to her mouth. She watched as the sun fully appeared, and as the last hint of darkness faded into light, she swallowed.   6