The Martyr Tree

They said she loved only one man — that’s how the old song goes. But the truth? It was a tree — no metaphor, no myth. A real one: knotted, gnarled, older than shame itself. She found it when her heart was still raw from trying, and men were hollow bells, rung too many times. So she tended it, whispered to it, sang into its bark with a voice no longer needed elsewhere. Her youth curled at its roots. Her strength climbed its spine. And every year, it grew as she grew smaller. She told her daughter, “This is love. Quiet. Loyal. Rooted.” But her daughter heard the ache between the words. She looked at the rope, the sky, the body curved like devotion — and asked herself: Was it really love, or martyrdom in a dress? They found her hanging — peaceful, like she was returning to something she’d never really left. And the tree? It didn’t break. It didn’t bend. It held her — not like a tombstone, like a witness, like a mirror. And then, they were one — not woman, not wood, but myth. Whisper. Wild thing.