The Stretch

Even if I am to bark up the wrong tree, so be it as long as I am barking at something. I don't know how to climb a tree. Wrongs can't be right until a climb has ensued. I slide many times before I correct my path. A really steep climb, all the way up, reaching out to save my children who lie here at the top.

Giants take my children from me and put them there. Too strong for me, I can't fight back. No big deal for them cause' they don't need to climb the tree; standing on the ground, they simply roll em' over to the nestled leaves. But I must stand my ground if I were to win this war. It is a war now that they have taken them from me.

I hold on to the bark for dear life. As much as I want, I can't let go of it. I don't know how to. Fear is all around me. Fear is swelling inside of me; my children, taken from me. I slide. I slide all the way down. The bark is flimsy. It comes off easily. Just as well, I spring right up, get back on with the climb. My nails dig deep, clawing into its russet skin.

Some bark comes straight off and exposes a stark tree which in turn shows a clear pathway to me. The tree gives me some stability, as I get my bearings back on it. Half way up, I hear my children sing, "I love you Mummy. My only sweet Mummy. I love yoouu when the days are sunny. In winter, I love you some more". Sweat runs down my forehead. Trepidations rise as I hear their voice. They sing out loud; I yell that I am coming to rescue them. They tell me that the time is right now, 'cause the monsters are out to pick berries in the woodlands.

Time is of the essence. How soon before the giants return? Amla in Bangla, and rich in Ayurvedic properties, the giants know about it only too well. They are after the ripened fruit — the reds, not the greens. They have a huge appetite to whet. I inch up and slide back; quick to resume, I stay the course. Gently treading this time, afraid to fall. The tree seems to be growing on me. I feel dwarfed against it, obviously unlike the giants as tall as the tree.

What better lure than to secure my children's destiny from the giants who would make a meal out of their tender bones, and red gooseberry even before the evening is out? This impossible climb bruises me from head to toe. Lean times, a lean tree. Weary of the chase, I turn my gaze upon the woodlands. From this height, I can't see the gooseberry anymore; minutely microscope, they seem to disappear on the stretch.

The tree is tall; too tall for me. Giants have no patience, and perspire in vain. I see clearly how distraught they are, trampling the shrubbery in anger because they don't see it. The fruit is massacred underneath their giant feet. Towering tall, they don't see what I see. I see my children. They see me. I make them a few gooseberry pies picked from the same shrubbery.

Mehreen Ahmed is an award-winning Australian novelist/short fiction born in Bangladesh. Her works have appeared in Litro, Chiron Review (forthcoming), Ngiga Review, RogueAgent: Sundress, Popshot Quarterly, Panorama Journal, and has received four botN, James Tait, and Pushcart nominations.

Find more by Mehreen Ahmed in the Author Index.

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