Dogwoods and Willow Trees
My father’s favorite tree is a dogwood tree, so is mine. Mine used to be a willow tree, like the one on my farm. We sit on a bench at our favorite park, eating ice cream from the truck he’d never let me go to before. The white petals dancing around us and filling my hair. I feel like a princess as the smell of spring fills my lungs. The memory of him yelling at my mother and his late from home far away in my mind. It is his weekend and he stresses I will soon meet his new friend; from his mouth she seems kind.
At home, during the week, my mother loses her mind quietly. She struggles to work as much as she can and balance motherhood. My father claims this is her fault, she does not speak his name. I tell her about his new friend and she asks me to go to my room and silently goes to hers. I overhear my grandmother say his friend is not new.
My father picks me up and we go to the park. His friend meets us there; she gives me snacks and takes photos of us. I overhear talk of purchasing a house, I am only six but I enjoy my dad’s apartment. At their wedding I pass out from the heat, my grandmother says it is an omen. I don’t know what that means.
I am 12 now, my mother sleeps most days. She fights for her sanity but still tries to make sure me and my brother are taken care of. My father’s home feels like hell itself as we pull up to his suburb, and my mother tells me she’s sorry. I can change it when I’m 14 with the judge. I no longer scream and cry as I exit the car. No one must pull me out with force, but it feels painful to trudge to the front door. The dogwood’s petals float all around and land in my hair, making me angry.
My siblings run to me, all more my children than siblings as I babysit them most weekends so my father and stepmother can have time together. I only have two right now but by next year there will be three. My stepmother locks up the snacks, she says they are for my siblings and that I eat too much. At dinner, because I did not eat my meal, she locks me in my room. I tried but I threw up. It was spaghetti with mushrooms, the doctors say it is because of my mind. She says it is privilege.
My stepmom takes my phone at night and when I’m in trouble and before bed. My mom gives me an extra phone to hide from my dad. I text my mother while crying, wanting to hurt myself again. Thirty minutes later she is in the drive with police cars. There is fighting, but the door unlocks and I am taken out by cops. My mom reports everything my stepmom has done from cutting my hair to my ears to keeping me in my room when she didn’t need me.
I haven’t seen my father’s family for a year. He calls me and tells me he is going to war in Iraq. I go to see him off, my siblings smile and jump in excitement after not seeing me. I tell them I love them and go home to my mother and younger brother. A year later at 15 I get a call from my dad asking me to go see my siblings. My mom is scared to take me but she says she will wait outside. As I climb the stairs to the front door, the smell of dogwoods turns my stomach, it fills my senses and haunts my memory.
I knock and my youngest brother answers, my sister cries, my other brother clings to my leg. We talk, they show me the new additions to their rooms even though my mom begged me to stay near the door. My stepmother grabs my shoulder, “You can’t just show up here for 15 minutes. Your sibling’s father might die at war, and you are just making things harder.” She spits through her teeth to a 15-year-old. I can’t handle it any longer, I turn and scream in her face that, “He is my father to.” These are the last words I say in front of my siblings, and she intended it that way.
My father calls angry because I have upset her. Years later, as an adult, I learn from my siblings she always told them I wasn’t their sister. They never listened. Dogwoods are my father’s favorite tree. Weeping willows are mine.
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