Sylvia Plath screams in my head. Her voice is shrill and ripped raw, cracking and weak as she repeats the same two words from her parched lips. It’s so deafening that I wince.
“Fig tree.”
Everything else in my head is incomprehensible chatter. The world spins around, and I can only hear the thump of my heart pounding. Heaviness weighs in my veins, and the words echo through me like a goddamn prophecy.
“Fig tree.”
I’ve been at this tree for years. My feet have been planted in the same spot for so long that my shoelaces have become roots and the soles have infused themselves into the ground. There’s moss growing atop the canvas, and it all wraps around my ankles in earthly bounds. My body is a trunk and I believe I am hollow, doubt and indecision drilling into me like an insistent and aggressive flock of woodpeckers.
“Fig tree.”
I look up at the vast branches before me. Some figs on the outskirts have shriveled up, their skin sickly yellow and ashy purple as they rot on the branches. My pulse thumps like the ticks on my lifeline. I stand there paralyzed and unsure as I wait for more of the fruit to follow suit. My hand is outstretched above me, waiting for its command on what to grab as the ache flooding through it intensifies.
Even with the pain, I remain there. Standing. Waiting. Yearning.
“Fig tree.”
I beg for an answer. I want some divine force to make a decision, but the fig tree is in a godless land. It’s just me here, taunted by the infinitely finite line of my past and present, telling me to make the right decision.
“Fig tree.”
Deep in my consciousness, I know there is no right choice. Regardless, I still stay planted. I still yearn and reach, but I don’t grab. My fingers are going numb and my arm feels like lead, but I still reach up with hope that someone, something, will guide it.
“Fig tree.”
