Forest of Forgetting

A bird chirps unknown thoughts from a branch in a tree that I have not seen before today. The air feels thick, with the taste of a storm or rain; I cannot tell for sure how the weather will play out, for I do not live in the clouds.

I stand in a potato sack dress, oblivious to my situation; I do not know how I came to be here, nor do I know the name of this country.

I know nothing, yet I feel the very fabric of my surroundings. The connection with nature, as if words are spoken directly to me and only for me to hear, guides me forward.

Trees remind me of the Tree-Folk and their many stories; the wisdom they share with only a selected few. I feel closer to something as I step across an invisible threshold into the forest.

The weight of some emotional distress lingers on my skin and in my mind; I hold back the welling of my heart and those tears wanting to spill and run free towards the forest floor.

Something is missing from my many layers. It is as though my past, personality, and me, the person standing in a forest, ceases to be what she once was.

I walk to remember. I walk to forget. I walk through the ever-increasing darkening of the forest as rain does not come. Instead, snow begins to fall.

The snow should be cold. The snow should make me feel cold, yet it makes me feel calm.
I stand still, waiting for something to come.

In the forest of forgetting, I walk, and I walk until I remember what it is that I must finish.

Forest Spirit

https://www.deviantart.com/miriteval

A smile from ear to ear,
as the young one ships through
the forest searching for playtime.

Monstrous trees do tower,
and the feeling of them bending
inwards is a very odd feeling.

Odd feelings pass, as her
favourite tree approaches, or
she approaches her favourite tree.

Strange, as always, she asks for
permission before climbing
this familiar one, her safe one.

A flicker of movement out of
the corner of her eye
piques her innocent curiosity.

Feeling as though she now has
permission to climb, she climbs
the tree steadily, full of life.

Sitting in her spot, she looks
down and sees a boy, yet not a
boy; maybe an elf, forest spirit.

Calm, she watches as he walks
away; she calls to him, yet he
never turns towards her, gone.

She comes to visit this spot hoping
to catch a glimpse of him again,
and to see her friend the tree.

She hasn’t seen him for years,
yet her daughter just pointed and
said, “A boy Mumma! A boy!”

Sisters

Weeping from behind the brown door grew louder and louder until one could hear the crying from all corners of the house.
The house lives and breathes something primal; malice lingers in the corners threatening those who venture to close to the flame.
She is only six, so she knows things and sees things the adults choose not to see; things adults choose to forget.
Weeping from behind the brown door stirs something forgotten in her soul as if she knows who occupies those walls.
Taking a torch, she pads tentatively along the hall of rooms to the one that sits at the end; the one with the brown door.
Experienced with keys and as sharp as a knife, she hastily acquires the key and puts the right one in the lock to see if it works.
A click and movement are all the convincing she needs to enter without fear; only to find out why the weeping continues.
Two eyes stare at her, and a quick movement frightens her, yet she holds her nerve and enters further still into the room.
The eyes occupy a person, and the person is familiar to her; the person is her long-lost sister who was feared dead.
Convinced at once that this is the chance, she takes her sister’s hand, they pad along the hall, and out into the night.
The parents awoke the next morning to two empty rooms. Two sisters swept up by a vanishment that created a legend.
For the girls, they made their way through the forest and into the night; now they live countries away without fear of the night.