Rambler
Flash Fiction 06
“Why don’t I go first?” Keith nudged a thorny branch of flowers away from my eyes.
“Because I grew up in these woods.” I forced my way into the tree line.
“You haven’t been down to the river in years.”
“This isn’t like that time I tried to drive to Mamey’s house from memory…”
“…And we drove all over kingdom come before we got there.” He smirked.
“But we got there, didn’t we?” I stopped and held his arms, pinching yellow flannel between my fingers. “I know the trees; they’re like totems. I’ll feel my way around them and remember.”
His eyes softened. “Lead on then, love.”
Leaves tickled my skin as I pushed further in, memories fluttering by. “I pretended those oaks were forest guards.”
“And you talked to ‘em?” Keith ducked under a spider web.
“I told them jokes to enter their magical forest and visit Queen Willow.”
Craning my head for Keith’s reaction, I spotted his dimple pressing through the beard.
“Everyone was always calling me a wild child.”
He tugged my ponytail. “They still do.”
“You’ll all be shocked to know that I do slow down in this little sanctuary, where a majestic tree is draped in a million strands of little green feathers that swish in the wind and dip into the river.” My heart ached to consider how I forgot to visit this spot after getting married and having babies. “Sitting under drapes, between soft soil and long sky, offered rest like nothing else.” I sighed. “I miss resting.”
“Mmm.” He was quiet, stalking like a winter hunter. But I relished the cracking and squishing of fallen forest under my quick feet.
The further I tramped, though, the more tangled everything became. I hesitated between masses of overgrowth and openings that felt foreign. The funny-shaped trees I once drifted by were unrecognizable.
“Ain’t even a game trail through these ramblers,” Keith observed.
“Ramblers?” I snorted. “They’re roses. And I adore how they’ve taken over!”
I lumbered over saplings. A scrawny one whipped my leg. Keith offered again to lead. But I quickened my pace.
“Farmers tried using these multiflora roses as natural fencing.” I hummed in reflection. “Didn’t work too well, trying to use something so wild as a barrier.”
Keith’s arm grazed my shoulder as he pushed a low branch away from my face. Four years together and his closeness still hushed me.
“Down south we had our own well-intended weeds,” he said. “Looks like bumpy green blankets thrown over everything, even trees. Once kudzu’s free to run, it’ll cloak anything standing still.”
I elbowed through sucker branches. “Well it’s only a weed if people don’t want it—like dandelions.”
“Now them’s useful.” Keith agreed. “We’d pick buckets and make tea with the leaves, wine with the blossoms.”
“See? Not weeds to your folks. When dandelions die, they transform into wishes, the breath of God carrying them off. No matter what kinda soil catches them, they grow.” I spotted a clearing and moved toward it. “People can’t tell the wind where to plant dandelions and they can’t contain our wild roses. They all just go where they go and that’s the beauty of life.”
I turned to see Keith crouching under low branches I should’ve held back for him. “You listening?”
“Yeah,” he assured. “I hear you ramblin’. Like your flowers.”
“Really? Get to the river without me then!” I rushed through shadows, the forest catching my clothes and picking at my skin. I paid no mind, as nothing surpasses the thrill of racing through the wild.
When I wondered if I was too far lost, I stopped to listen and finally heard the whisper of the river. The shapes of the trees were older and weathered, tall enough to dampen the light so that only ferns and moss balanced woody colors. Keith carefully kept towards me. I waited for him.
My satisfaction in racing ahead quelled as I studied him. He gingerly pressed branches to open like shutters, sidestepping decayed wilderness. He weaved between narrow passages, flickers of gold kissing him before he moved into the shade with me.
His eyebrows crinkled. “You’re bleeding.”
He lifted his shirt to dab at scratches and red bubbles stinging my arms. His hands were rough, but his skin unbroken.
I tried to thank him, but pride caught in my throat.
The river beyond the tree line felt close. Keith took my hand and walked toward the sound. He pushed through overgrowth and spiderwebs until we were staring at a lively Tuscarawas river.
Trees that once loomed large and special to me where muddled together, nearly indistinguishable from the rest of the wilderness. Brush and brambles careened over and under everthing.
Then I saw my tree.
The willow was dead as a doornail, choked by a misshapen mass of green leaves. Pink ramblers freckled its side opposite the river.
“There’s some ramblers for ya,” Keith observed. “Er, roses.”
I whispered, “You can’t even see the bark. Her lacy green curtains are fried.” Pacing and pitying, I couldn’t tear at the weeds because of the thorns. The sprays of cheerful flowers mocked me.
“Those vicious weeds devoured her!”
Keith watched me circle and cry before draping his arm around me. “Let’s rest and you tell me more about young Shelley here.”
I gave in and settled beside him, fidgeting with grass blades. His eyes were fixed on a rock unmoved in the river while I rambled on about childhood schemes and hopes and dreams.
Keith pulled a handful of blackberries from his flannel pockets.
“I don’t remember berries here,” I said, devouring the fruit.
“You raced right by, probably got pricked by ‘em too.” He looked down at my arm. “Sorry ‘bout your tree.”
Leaning into him, I breathed and rested for a bit. “This is better.”
“Let’s come back with gloves and loppers.” His blue eyes reflected the water. “Wear in a new path with our girls?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “Lead the way home.”
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Back to the start: Secret Recipe
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Notes
A brief history of the use of the multiflora (rambler) rose as live fencing
This invasive plant fact sheet shows photos of the rambler rose slowly killing a crabapple tree
Simply beautiful. I love my short escapes into the world of Keith & Shelley. Thank you for letting us share in this journey with you!