Oak trees

A Story by Kotryna

Short reflection of a different life in the woods, love, life, and memories. The story of a writer.

I have been staring at this sheet of paper for hours. Not a single thought, not a single sentence. I put my pen down and watch our oak door, all handmade, all ours. We moved here five years ago, right after we had fallen in love with this forest and its massive oak trees all around our tiny wooden house. We have no neighbors around except from plenty of birds and wild forest dwellers. And oak trees, of course.

“Do you know that people believe in tree spirits back in Finland?”

“People believe in all kind of things. I am not surprised.”

Jack’s parents were born in Finland. My sweet Jack, I cannot imagine someone stronger than he is. We moved to the forest mostly because he had always dreamed of untamed, free and simple life far from the city lights and its vanity, as he used to say. And really, he does belong here. Jack made our oak door which saves us from cold and storms outside. He is an artist, so we have paintings everywhere. We also have my books, notebooks and sheets of paper all around. Well, our home looks like a study, like a beautiful mess full of watercolors and poetry. Our home smells like coffee all the time.

I do believe in tree spirits, I just do not have my spark anymore. That is why I pretend to be careless and sometimes even indifferent, that probably is why I cannot write anymore. That is what Jack keeps telling me.

Oh the spark! The whiteness of paper in front of me makes my eyes hurt. I lift my pen and slowly curve your name where my poem should live and bloom. Now there is only one four " letter word.

“I made you some herb tea.” " Jack is so calm and strong. " “Still can’t write? It is terrible, that writer’s block, isn’t it?”

“Yeah…”

“Here, take your tea. You just need some time off.”

“I hope you’re right.”

I barely look at Jack. He stares at me for a while and his face becomes sad again. He turns around and walks away through our oak door. I love that man, I just do not have my spark anymore.

Sun is almost gone and I have to turn on the lights. Yellowish light colors dark walls. I take my cup of tea and stand at the window.

I remember you loved autumn. We used to take endless walks in the University park, and you used to look so beautiful in the early August sun. We would sit on a bench and talk about books we had read and dreams we had in our hearts. The spark… It was so easy to create back then.

I come back to my table and pull out another sheet of paper. I have to write. I feel like I am dying, like there is no ‘me’ left inside this body. Please, tree spirits, Jack, you… I am not cold, I am alive and bright, you all know that.

Another empty hour passes by. Time is ticking away and I lose every single moment of it. How many weeks, months I have already missed? How many of them I have stolen from Jack? I am so sorry.

I was the dreamer, the head-in-the-clouds one, and you used to love calling yourself a scientist. You are one now. Busy with your hectic days, your distant husband who hardly cares about anything apart from Physics, your luxurious apartment and artificial happiness.

Dark forest tree tops touch the dark sky full of stars. I go outside and join Jack. He sits quietly on the doorsteps surrounded by full-moon night. Between shadows and misty air from above the lake I find his face. He is sad. I sit next to him and touch his hand.

“I really want to help you out, but I don’t know how.”

“I know, Jack.”

We sit there without saying a word and yet we speak. We both know how loud our silence can be. And we both know how devastating it feels not to be able to create, how hard it gets to have all those thoughts and emotions inside you.

If only I could write again!

I wonder what you would say now. I am the one who gave up on society and chose not to compete, not to try to impress and simply be. I am the one who actually found my far away home. I am the one who walks barefoot. But neither you nor I can write now. Does it prove you were right?

The truth is, I miss us. I miss those conversations, glasses of wine and young minds full of hopes, full of dreams and passions. The only things we had back then were our aspirations and nostalgic eyes looking for the things we had never actually had, but still longed to find again.

“It is an artificial world you live in,” " you said one day and left for your science lecture.

I have never known you since then.

Jack puts his arm around me. Does he know what I am thinking about? Lost loved ones surely bring gloomy light in our eyes, he must have noticed it.

“I will write soon and once that happens, I will love you again, Jack.” " I whisper.

Silver moonlight fills the night as you fall asleep alone. You yearn for new galaxies, but never learn to belong here on Earth. Your sleeping face looks forlorn after the long day of smiling.

“I know you will.” " Jack presses my hand and stands up. We come back into the house. My Jack opens the window so that early dawn air and first morning light could come in and fill our watercolor and poetry home with freshness and airiness. After this long day of melancholy, I close my eyes smiling. Jack falls asleep slowly, I feel him breathing next to me, right where I’ll find him tomorrow.