She removed the
dagger. In the hopes that one day this symbol would become true love she
inserted the tip of the blade into the soft flesh of the birch. She carved
their initials together: J.K. + V.L. There is no rejection in the forest. A
birch may sustain thousands of cuts without bleeding, but not so a little girl.
All the cuts, all the wounds, all whispered prayers and yearnings are invisible
in the middle of the forest. The birches there are scarred with initials dating
back to her parents’ time. The hearts date back even longer. It is a forest of
stories. Of memory. A place of temples and sacrifice as ancient and fragile and
pristine as love itself. Today — a day for all loves — when she stands
perfectly still with the blade in her hand she can feel the wandering echoes of
history hold their breath along with her. Together they freeze in anticipation.
J.K. + V.L. If it is to begin, it will be today. If it will be today, it will
be forever. At last, the two lines move downward and converge to complete the
heart. The arrow comes last, sharp, unerring, pointed fast at its target. The
target flutters and beats. The target is large and wet and overflowing. The
knife clicks shut, the girl leaves the forest, and the branches overhead sway
in a wind so faint it is barely a wind, barely a breeze, but more the idea of
these things together.
This article appears in Aug 18-24, 2004.
