Yellow Yarn

A tiny, chubby hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. A loose bracelet made of yellow yarn circles her wrist. Dark hair glistens in the sunlight and trees stretch tall above her, ancient branches quivering in a puff of wind, and a stoic wooden bench sits beside the trunk. Flower petals blow everywhere, clinging to trees, whispering around her, rioting from purest white to deepest pink. She catches one in her hand, quite by chance, and waves it gleefully around before stuffing it into her mouth. Her teacher is too busy with twenty-two other children to notice, but she spits it out, a frown warping her face.

Blegh.

Another child, wobbling around on unsteady legs, wavers towards the tree. She frowns again, telling him with no uncertainty in her lisp that this is her tree. He doesn’t respond, smiling with pearl-like teeth. He asks her if he can stay, if she can share. Before she says anything, he grabs a petal from the ground and holds it out to her, like an offering. His smile falters as she stares at it. But slowly a smile curves her childish mouth, and she accepts the exquisite petal.

A small, slightly longer hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. A yellow bracelet fits a little better now, and the trees do not stretch as tall as they once did. She hears his careful steps but does not turn around, waiting until his familiar hand joins hers, tracing along the trunk of the flower tree. Her hand slides off the bark, scraping against her skin as she turns to sit on a wooden bench that has sat loyally there for long as she can remember. He sits next to her, and they talk quietly to each other. The other students do not notice them. The sight of them sitting on the decrepit bench is a sight that has long lost any excitement or teasing it may have caused. Underneath the tree, both of them play absentmindedly with the flower petals, and when it is time to go back inside, their hands are stained pink.

A hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. A yellow bracelet fits perfectly around her wrist. Delicate petals drift all around her, rustling softly. One gets caught in her hair, but a feather soft touch brushes through her hair, taking the petal away. She smiles before turning around, and sees him playing with it. He sits on the ground this time, crossing his legs, and she sits with him. Other students that seem distantly unimportant chatter nervously about exams, about graduation, about details of their lives. But they stay consumed in their thoughts, their own world a frail, glossy bubble. Suddenly he breaks the silence. His voice is quiet, but her eyes widen, and her lips part in shock. Silence falls between them, pulsing through their veins, magnifying in their ears. She starts to speak, but before she can, he leans forward and kisses her. He draws back after a single second, and when he does, their cheeks are smudged with a colour as brilliant as the buds of the tree they sit under.

A lone hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. The faintest of sighs is heard, blending with the rustle of the wind. Fingers trace lightly across bumps and divots in the wood before footsteps slowly fade away from the tree.

A hand with a ring glistening on the fourth finger rests against the rough bark of a tree, entwined with another. Rain drips calmly from leaves and flowers, wetting the heads of the two that stand underneath it. They don’t appear to notice. They turn towards each other, talking in low tones, and those that walk past them avert their eyes, as though some hidden instinct tells them that this is not a moment to be trespassed on. Each one’s eyes search the other’s, a dim glow of absolute happiness illuminating them both. But she is hesitant, drawing away from him. She sits carefully on the bench. He sits down beside her, and when she speaks, it is quickly, her eyes cast anxiously up to his. But his jaw drops fractionally, his eyes shine, and he tangles a hand in her hair as he leans forward to kiss her forehead. Their eyes close briefly. When he pulls back from her, the dim glow is now alive in the air with sparkling joy, moving restlessly around them.

A hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. She smiles and leans her head against the trunk, her swollen belly straining against her coat. He nudges her back with his elbow, precariously balancing two paper cups of pastel cotton candy ice cream. She turns and takes one, smiling in thanks, and together they sit on the old bench. As they sit, they talk about colours, about how to make room and alter schedules, how to cope with responsibility. The frozen sweets begin to melt, forgotten. They are too engrossed with each other, too busy planning, too busy weaving their lives around a new life. A flower petal, drifting on the air, settles on the curve of her wrist.

It is the exact shade of the forgotten ice cream.

A tiny, chubby hand rests against the rough bark of a tree. A bracelet made of faded yellow yarn circles the small wrist, and her dark hair glistens in the sunlight. The young girl smiles a sweet, lopsided grin at her father, who is sitting on the bench. He smiles wistfully back. The toddler sits down on a blanket of exquisite flower petals and begins to play with them. Enthusiastically, she takes one in her fist and takes a bite out of it before her father can stop her, and a sour expression twists her small features when she spits it out. He laughs, beckoning her closer. When she does, walking unsteadily on unexperienced legs, he leans down and gives her a tiny, flawless flower blossom. Slowly, the child toddles back over to the tree. It is with great care that she places the flower on her mother’s grave with tiny, pink-stained hands.