Once upon a time, right in the middle of an ordinary life, Love gives us a fairy tale.
We are decades into our new country, and my embryonic innocence has ripened to a compact sanctuary of shade. Farmlands and hamlets have amputated acres of our lush forest. Humans traipse back and across the wildflower meadows in between. And a young man arrives one afternoon. He stares up at me, smiles, and grips my trunk.
How odd the sensation as he climbs me! My ample branches tickle as he brushes leaves and buds. I blush and blossom in hues of yellow. He rests a bit and swings his long legs and threadbare shoes to a beat of his own. Then, the teen climbs down and sprints away, calling out, “I’ll be back!”
You know that romance festers in the rage of summer, right?
I was giddy. The poetry of how he woke me-the lustrous feeling of connection. Dusk understands, working escort duty for the screeching cacophony of mating cicadas-oh my Mother Nature, they are loud! As the moon ripples over the river and the sky changes into its sleeping clothes, I pine for the reappearance of my mysterious friend.
The next twilight, he returns. With a pretty young lady. Golden twisty vines frame her pale face, and surely, she embodies Freyja, the goddess of love and beauty. Delicate fingers trace over a bulbous warty limb of mine. I swear, I bloom ten-fold this very moment.
Garrett and Wista. Together, they climb and swing and kiss. Garrett and Wista, sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Someone calls from far away, and Miss Wista hurries to go despite the cicadas’ deafening chicanery. She kisses Garrett and hugs me.
We three are in love.
Every day, Garrett waits with me for Wista. This is no seedling love-it has the purity and honor of Evergreen. Each time they kiss and cajole, I flourish with sweet honey and perfect flowers. Garrett wears his heart on his sleeve, and I don all of mine: Lindens have heart-shaped leaves!
Cicadas regale us nightly. Virtuosos of love songs. Garrett harmonizes with big plans to conquer industry while Wista sketches fanciful wonders in moss-green charcoal. Sometimes she whispers wild wishes in his ear. But the distant call of home always comes, and dutifully she always goes.
Garrett pleads with her to start a life together without the confines of her family’s money or his lack of it. He will be here tomorrow, ready to go into the Big World. It will be summer solstice, a lucky day for love. Garrett’s parting kiss beckons her to join him.
The next day, Wista does not show. We wait for her. Garrett carefully wedges the promise ring into his waistcoat pocket and climbs higher than ever. He peers through my dappled cushion, hoping to glimpse a sign of the golden goddess walking toward us. All we can see are her family’s neat rows of grapevines laden with rich purples.
We wait in the loud quiet of the darkening woods. Nocturnal choirs of cicadas bewitch even fireflies to light the way for Wista. But she never comes. Eventually, a gentle fog blankets us with sleep.
Morning startles me. Garrett is gone, but he’s left a letter in my bark folds. The promise ring hangs by a shoelace from my warty branch.
All day, bees frenzy in their celestial dance, yet I mope, and my flowers slouch. It really does feel like the longest cavalcade of the year. By sundown, I wave away the honeybees and embrace nesting birds and vibrating cicadas.
Must we all just play our part in the world? Does Fate skewer the stars of lovers with no hope for a happy ending? Garrett has wings of an eagle, willing to find his way in the world, but Wista roots her worth in the levy of family. I gloom.
Constellations toast the solstice carnival like champagne and cabaret upon the night sky. And that’s when I see her, our dazzling impressionist’s flower, ascending the hill to me. Wista quickly finds Garrett’s note and band of gold. At once, she crumples, weeps, and leaves-
-Now, now, cheer up! I am the Tree of Lovers, and I promised a fairytale.
That night, the cicadas abruptly vanish, their viral whir gone. What humans may not know is that cicadas, like pure love and good wine, can burrow and mature in the vigor of soil for years. The fermentation of faith.
Eventually, Wista returns with a wine bottle and Garrett’s parting gifts. The vineyard’s new indigo label shows a profile of hair swirling around a sad, cherubic face shedding tears. Her father had aptly named the prized wine Wista Weeps.
Through inebriated grief, my Wista does indeed weep. She marshals Garrett’s note and ring into the emptied bottle-her liquid heartache splashing-and buries it beneath my hulking roots with a prayer. I guard her hidden treasure like teeth under a pillow, wishing for root fairies to grant her wish.
Years go by. Concentric circles swell my girth, and Wista continues to visit after work. She wearies from the stronghold of her duties. She nurtures her grapes like babies, each vine swaddled and fed and guided. Even her hair and fingers absorb the inky tints of her labor.
Then, one night her father dies, and the winery is hers. She skips up the hill in the middle of the day, mourning dress flowing, coiffed hair unraveling. She speaks of messaging the Big World into which Garrett had ventured, with hopes of retrieving her only love.
Her missive-Wista Waits-dispatches with smashing success, selling in places her imagination could only conjure. Unlike previous labels of melancholy blue, the latest bottle boasts a happy moss-green sketch of our dear girl sitting under my fullest plume and holding a ring on a string.
The smells of summer harvest our hopes. I lace twigs to cradle fuzzy fledglings and bustle with bees to make honey. Voluptuous grapes spill from vines. And Wista arrives nightly with her unshackled smile. Together we wait.
And then, just like that, seventeen years from the night she buried her love and laughter, millions of cicadas burst forth from fermented ground. Their ballad pounds the threshold of human hearing.
Only they knew what a momentous occasion lay ahead.
Wista feels the vineyard flutter. She marvels as bruise-purple grapes suddenly blanch to spirals of ethereal gold as if polished by Moon. Her hair and fingertips gloss translucent.
She knows. He is here.
Garrett has returned from his worldly travels. Clammy hands belie the sensibilities of his long legs and fine leather shoes. He sets down the bouquet of exotic flowers and a case of precious Wista Waits. Message received loud and clear: Love potion, bottled just for him. He pats his waistcoat.
The entire valley holds its collective breath. Wista races up the hill, Garrett down. They mesh and mash in the middle and laugh and cry. He drops to his knees with a shiny new ring, and every blade of grass undulates in her yes.
Their wedding is held under my branches. Birds and neighbors string ribbons, a preacher blesses the union, and wine flows like the burly river.
Garrett buys the lands framing my roots in every direction. He builds a castle for his bride and a treehouse for their children. My flowers fill their vases, my honey their pots. Evenings are spent dancing to the “cicadian” rhythms under the stars.
We are in love.
Originally published at https://lunastationquarterly.com on November 20, 2022.
