The Names of the Trees

The Names of the Trees

Laura Kasischke

I passed this place once long ago 

 when a man lived here with his four 

 daughters, peacefully, it seemed. Those 

daughters took turns washing 

 dishes, doing laundry. Frothy pearls and 

 feathers in a sink. Soft 

socks, warm towels, folded, clean, in 

 closets, drawers, and baskets, and 

 on shelves. To me 

this was astonishing. The laundry 

 done by daughters! No 

 mother in the house at all. A weeping 

willow grew in their back- 

 yard, but it was not a symbol then. 

 It could not have been 

because this was the only tree 

 I knew the name of yet -- unless it was a tree 

 that bore familiar fruit. Like 

an apple tree, a mulberry. This 

 willow's branches did not seem to be 

 branches at all to me, but 

ribbons dangling loosely, tangling 

 girlishly. If there was any weeping, it 

 was inaudible to me. (Was 

I supposed to see it?) One 

 of the daughters was only 

 a year ahead of me, and she 

invited me (once) inside because 

 she wanted to play house with me. When 

 I confessed I wasn't sure what playing 

house might mean, this girl 

 said she would teach me. 

 She was Mother for this reason. 

I was the family dog. She 

 told me to eat Froot Loops 

 from a bowl on the kitchen floor 

while on my hands and knees. We 

 laughed when I couldn't do it. But when 

 I was Mother, she 

couldn't do it either. 

 That there was laughter! 

 A blue tablecloth. 

Salt and pepper shakers shaped 

 like hands, which, put 

 together, appeared to pray. When 

I was thirsty, another daughter poured 

 a cup of water for me, pouring 

 water with such confidence it 

seemed to me that she 

 might have poured the first water 

 from the first tap. When, out 

of curiosity, I went 

 into their bathroom and pretended to pee 

 I witnessed toilet paper printed with 

forget-me-nots, along with a little dish 

 that held a piece of pink soap in it. 

 And, when, after this, I couldn't sleep 

for three nights in a row, my 

 mother finally gave up 

 trying to comfort me.