It is early Dawn, when the warm breath of the sun just begins to kiss the frosted blades of grass and mellow branches of pine trees. Like mirror images, the grass softens as the branches rise, relieved from their snowy blankets. For a moment, about as long as the parting hug of two friends, just as warm and just as fleeting, the smoke from the small metal chimney disappears in the haze of dew’s transcendence. The glow, like rising snow, sparkles skyward and makes way for the crisp, clear rays of the now risen sun. I watch those rays first shyly kiss the feet of that little log cabin, climbing log, by mortar, by log. Almost camouflage in a winter’s night, the weathered wood transforms into a canvas painted pink and blood orange by the gently ascending sun. A shadow swings beneath the windowsill, intricate enough to caress the shapes of the chipping white paint. Next, the pinnacle of my morning routine, I watch the sun breach the glass and deliver the day to the cabin. The frost bursts and retreats to the corners of the window as the sunlight catches the smudged outline of a child’s face once pressed there to more closely watch a passing deer. From this ghost, the rays of light continue their journey to the far side of the room, and victorious, intensify against the wall, the bed, and its inhabitant. Like her cabin, I watch her body thaw in the sun’s gradual embrace. The little puffs of crystallized breath from her chimney nose grow fainter and fainter until they, too, concede to the sun. She stirs for a moment, in disagreement with the sun about when morning should be. But she always knows better than to fight it. With a yawn, she teases the chill morning air with her hands and toes, sending a plume of glitter-like dust from her trusted wool blanket into the brighter still sunlight. The wiggle of her toes seem to tell the rest of her body that the air is safe, and she crawls her way to the edge of the bed. She swings her bare legs down, body up, still wrapped in the blanket. I watch her gaze rise, following the footprints of the sun across the floor and out the window, through the ghost of her younger awe-struck face, past me and directly to the thawing rolls of the coulee she calls home. A smile warms her face and finally, the sunrise is complete. It is morning.
Annie rises to her feet and the ruffled edge of her nightgown tickles her legs as it falls to her ankles. She giggles. A nightgown is hardly the most practical sleepwear for a wintery cabin stay, but she always wore a night gown as a kid in this cabin, and to honour the good fortune of still being here, she wears a nightgown still. It’s curious, the ways that childhood remains. In a nightgown or a cabin or the way she still fits into the smile she wore so many years ago. She stumbles to the corner under the chimney, twists the little black handle and I see her face light up with a deep red glow. She grabs two splintered logs from the crypt of trees along the north wall and gently sets them among the embers of their fallen brothers. With heavy breaths she resuscitates the fire until I see the dance of the firelight across her face. She certainly is not a child now. The dance of light and shadows seem to draw out all the experience she has built into her eyes. The bags beneath them come and go, but the creases seem to linger now, like scars of a life well laughed. Suddenly these lines are emboldened as I notice that she smiles once more, proud of her first accomplishment of the day. She crosses to the rustic wooden table, grabs the kettle, swishes it, shrugs, and sets it on top of the woodburning stove. Annie’s aging is nothing compared to that of her cabin. The stove, once brilliant black, has now mostly wilted to its grey metallic skeleton, with hints of rust crawling up its feet. The concrete floor has begun to crack, mostly minor, save for a significant crevasse crawling under the stove. The roof would be almost entirely caved in by now had Annie not seen the necessity to repair it a couple of years ago. With her limited means, however, she merely replaced the supports and reused the shingles, which now make a checkered pattern of sun-bleached and formerly sheltered hues. Annie likes the rustic look of the cabin, so long as it stays upright. I think both her and the cabin wear their age with pride. Both tell a story of snowy storms and sun kissed mornings. Both have been around long enough to know they’re both still lucky to be around. And, in this moment, both are alone.
I am shocked, therefore, when Annie returns tonight with someone else. It isn’t her mother or father. In fairness, I haven’t seen either of them in years and may well not recognize them now. But I would recognize their age, if they are still alive at all, and this stranger is as young if not younger than Annie. Annie has no siblings or cousins, which I often think a shame. How alive this coulee might have been with children at play or at war, running through the brush or climbing the trees; inventing stories and leaving souvenirs of other worlds in their wake. But Annie is always alone, or before, with her parents. It was only Annie that climbed only one tree: me. Perhaps this was best. Perhaps in this she acquired the rare gift of being content with one’s own company. Even I, in the company of fellow trees, find myself wanting when Annie is not around. Yet here she is, and in the company of another I almost don’t recognize her. I recognize the lights of her car dancing down the coulee, and the low hum as she shifts from second gear to first while crawling up to the clearing before the cabin. But so strange is the sound of not one, but two car doors clicking shut. Who could possibly be visiting, and more, so late? I will have to wait for the morning to truly see her.
It is Dawn, and there is nothing more reliable than the sun. Its morning routine, its crawl across the coulees is undisturbed and efficient. It shines its familiar light, and I sigh my familiar sigh as the snow lightens ever so slightly upon my branches. I eagerly glance to the window to watch my friend’s clockwork waking, but she is not there. Only then do I hear the clang of the stove door shutting and catch the scent of freshly brewed coffee. The sizzle of bacon causes something in the bed to stir. My attention is united with Annie’s as she creeps up to the sighing blanket and gently begins to caress the figure of the mass beneath it, molding it into a human shape. The shape turns over and I am struck by a face that dares to outshine the sun. She smiles Annie’s smile, and Annie, seemingly in want of it, bends down and kisses this woman, now only a stranger to me. Smile to smile, they begin to stir when Annie pulls away and giggles, “I have to get the bacon.”
“Let it burn.” the stranger croons as she buckles her arms around Annie’s waist.
“Like hell,” Annie retorts as she stands up from the bed, her companion now hanging off her. “I guess you want to help with breakfast?”
“God, it’s cold” is the only reply. But the stranger stands and follows Annie to the stove, waddling as she still embraces her. They stay like this a moment, both moved only by Annie’s gently poking at the cast iron pan with an old fork. Annie lifts the pan and her partner rests her hand on Annie’s. “No, no,” she says, guiding the pan back to the stove, “I like it crispy.”
“Oh, well in that case…” Annie begins before being interrupted by the momentum of her own kiss. The momentum carries them directly back to the bed. The bacon is horribly burned by the time Annie returns to the stove. For some reason, she only smiles as she gazes down at the charred remains of their breakfast.
“Dawn, come out here!” Annie calls, with an excitement that almost travels through time, as though she were 10 years old, calling for the friend she never had. The stranger emerges from the door, and suddenly, she is Dawn. She skips up to Annie, who stands at my feet, and I can’t quite tell if she is staring at me or the sky. We’ve both grown. “This is my favorite tree. I used to climb it all the time as a kid.” She is staring at me.
“Why don’t we climb it now?” Dawn asks, a trace of mischievous intrigue in her voice. “Oh, I don’t think the tree could handle that.” Ouch. “Or me, for that matter.”
“Only one way to find out!” And with that, Dawn and I become one. My branches groan a bit as she makes her ascent, all too familiar with the stairway I crafted for Annie. This intimacy is off-putting but welcome. I want to know Dawn better; know this woman who has replaced my arms and holds my Annie’s heart. Up she climbs, and I can’t help but admire the strength in her legs, propelling her higher and higher. Her hands are softer than Annie’s, but not gentler. No, they are firm in a way that Annie’s always hesitate. I respect Dawn, and begin to understand why Annie has brought her here.
“I’d stop there,” Annie calls up from the ground, “That’s the farthest I ever went.”
“You sure I can’t go here?” Dawn teases, setting her left leg on a new branch and hefting herself up. She stops and stares at me at a height I’ve never been seen from before. I think it spooks us both. I stare deep into her eyes that look like autumn bark. Indeed, they have warmth that I’ve only seen in the sunrise before, and I am reminded of her smile that startled me when I first saw her this morning. I’ve grown used to this radiance already but am still warmed by it. I think surely that this warmth is what drew Annie to her. The only cold Annie could ever abide was the cold of our cabin, and she bore it always with blankets and fire. Perhaps Dawn is Annie’s fire for when she is away from the cabin. She has a scar on her left check with visible stitch marks; two, or maybe three when she smiles. It is not a threatening scar, not one that makes one scared or sad when they see it. It is a gentle scar, like one that has a funny story to tell. I hope Annie will ask about so that I might hear that story. But I am sure Annie has already heard the story before. Indeed, I am sure Annie knows just about everything about Dawn at this point. Looking deep into Dawn’s eyes, I see Annie. I imagine the months since Annie’s last visit here. Where I always picture her alone, anxious to return, I see her now, smiling on streets I’ve never seen and finding home in a land far beyond our coulee. Annie has fallen in love, and, to my relief, I can see that Dawn has too. I feel some pride in thinking that Annie has brought Dawn here out of the purest trust, to show her truest self; to show me. Dawn, seeing this, feels her heart swell, and as she descends my branches, I can feel her longing for Annie. She leaps to the ground, almost tackling Annie to the ground, and they spin. The chaos turns to dancing as they whirl and smile and kiss. I see now how selfish I’ve been. I see that Annie never wanted to be alone.
It is Dawn. Instead of evading the rising sun, Annie now ignores it. Dawn provides all the warmth she needs, and they lay there, not quite asleep but not daring to wake up. They are suspended only in the consciousness of each other. The embers in the stove go cold, and by the time Annie tends to it she needs matches and old crumpled newspaper to bring the fire back to life, or rather a new fire, a new life. This is not just Annie’s fire, but rather both of theirs, and it burns differently somehow; warmer, brighter, and shorter. It seems always to be demanding another log, and they are always there to tend it. They sit by the stove and tell stories and laugh. They sit at the table and play card games, and I see their feet caress each other beneath them. They lie in bed and talk, more tenderly than at the stove. Sometimes they face each other, and other times not, but they are always body to body, like two puzzle pieces that morph to always fit each other, no matter the direction. The sun moves more than they do and sets to them watching in an embrace at my feet. Here, in the coulee, the sun rises later and sets earlier than it does above us. The shadows of one ridge are cast upon the other, with the shapes of trees, bushes, and the voluptuous mounds of earth crawling as if they are some ancient beast, left behind in the place where a river once flowed strong.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Annie asks with a visible whisper in the cooling air. Dawn, wrapped around Annie, responds with a squeeze. I feel her shoulder blades wrap around my trunk as they lean back. Dawn kisses Annie’s head and I almost think they are asleep when I feel them start to shiver. They collect themselves, never releasing, and return to the cabin.
It is Dawn. The weekend is over, and I enjoy watching the sun rise on everything but Annie. I notice the absence of Dawn just as much. Snow begins to settle where there was only frost before. The sun is slower and weaker, but still, it rises and still it sets. Only a week passes before I see the familiar warm headlights of Annie’s car wrapping around a hill. Behind them, another, brighter set of lights are in pursuit. Oh good, I think, Dawn is returning.
It is Dawn. The sun rises on the couple in love. They stir together, they rise together, and they eat crispy bacon together. In awe of the fresh-fallen snow, they don coats and gloves and scarves and run outside. I think Annie might be a kid again as I watch her pack snow in her palms and toss it at Dawn, dodging the returning fire. I watch them embrace and collapse, rolling around and making a shape more beautiful than a snow angel. Snow lovers linger in that spot on the ground as the lovers true warm themselves by the stove.
“I love you.” Annie says, staring at the fire, but with all of her being facing Dawn. I hear more than just those words. I hear the longing that Annie has been holding for years, the longing to say those words and to say them just right. I hear each word as though it has been rehearsed a million times, all to be discarded and pronounced at the whim of the heart, like some new, foreign language. I hear her almost choke, so desperate for those words to stay, and matter, and be returned. I wonder what Dawn heard.
“Oh, I…” Dawn stammers, “I love you too.” Dawn kisses Annie’s head, a move now comfortingly familiar to both Annie and me. Annie smiles as she lays back into Dawn’s chest. They hug, suspended like the hazy morning air. They freeze in this vignette so long I think myself a painter, capturing each fine line of their expression, the colour of their cheeks, the outline of their embrace. I hold this image in my mind, and I smile.
It is Dawn. The new snow seems to absorb all the ambient sounds of morning. The crisp silence is so still that I can not only see but hear Annie’s breathing. I watch the sun meet her body, wrapping around her as she begins to stir, her smile the first thing awakened. She wakes up, looks outside, and sees footprints in the snow. With a sudden jolt, she turns back to the empty bed and runs into its empty arms.
“Dawn!” Annie cries as she runs out the door to find an equally empty lot. Never have the trio of Annie, myself, and her car felt so lonely. She paces back and forth, not sure where to turn or where to run or where to hide. As though she is embarrassed to face me, she bolts back inside, slamming the door with a force that shakes the whole cabin, the window rattling and the shingles swaying. The day passes to the sound of gentle sobs keeping time like an old clock, gasps marking the turning hours. The sun has almost set when I see Annie emerge from the house, so much more gently than when she crashed into it. I don’t know if the crying or merely Dawn’s absence has robbed her of her strength, but she is barely able to stand as she stumbles towards me, trudging two clumsy lines in the snow. Reaching my trunk, she bows her head and leans forward until her forehead gently meets my bark.
“Hey tree,” Annie sighs. I’ve almost forgotten that she used to talk to me as a kid. Now I almost forget that she’s grown up, hearing instead the desperate and scared voice of the lonely little girl inside her. Without raising her head, she raises her right arm to find the first rung of her familiar ladder. She needn’t look where she is going, as she pulls herself up the path she’s journeyed many times before. Finally at my familiar perch, she turns, sits, and leans sideways against me in the same way she only last night rested on Dawn.
“I guess you met Dawn. Sorry to waste your time on her-” She chokes up, pauses, and then goes on. “I really thought she was gonna stick around. I thought I finally found someone that I could bring here: trust with this place, with you. Someone that I thought could love me back…”
She finally lets the tears fall and warm her frosted cheek. Trembling as they fall, like snowflakes, they tell a story all their own, and say what seems to get lost in the lump in Annie’s throat. She holds me tight, talking at times, crying at others, and merely still so often we almost become one. I can’t help but feel she might wish that were so. Trembling from the cold air and from the agony in her heart, I offer all the warmth I can give, desperate to hold her for as long as she will let me. The moon skates across the glistening sky above us. Some passing deer pause to offer their silent condolences. Silence is all that is left. Silent grief lets silent tears fall, and silent longing echoes in our minds. Loneliness is so much worse after you’ve felt its opposite. Now we both know that, and truly wish we didn’t. I used to think I was enough for Annie, and perhaps I was, but no more. I can only hope that perhaps she’ll learn again the solace of solitude. That she can wake to the warm rays of the rising sun and smile. Perhaps she’ll wake with another beside her again. Perhaps she won’t. I only wish I could let her go and know she’ll be happy again. At he very moment of my wishing, a light in the distance answers. The brilliant light, growing brighter, caresses the distant knolls of the coulee. Annie stirs, her icy breath brushing past me. Ever so slightly she lifts her head and looks to the swelling light. I see, faintly, in the corner of her mouth, the beginnings of that smile that I love.
It is Dawn.