Harriet

Harriet was staring at a new tattoo on her back via a dirty mirror. A bicycle stuck in a tree. Did it mean anything? It could mean that her life is host to one big black hole of lost dreams and sticky fluids. Or it simply could mean that there was an ease coming for her with which she would approach all those new things that she knew nothing about yet, but at least realized that she didn’t know them. She would reach those things that lay just above her with an assured movement that others would recognize as an organic calmness that started from deep within her.
Maybe she got the tattoo because of the tree that used to be in her backyard when she was a kid. The tree she both despised and respected . Harriet had tried to climb it many times. Oftentimes she would throw her most favored possessions up into the main of the tree in hopes of having inspiration to climb to the top. She would often fail and most of the items stayed in the tree, maintaining even through a deep southern storm; and thus inheriting the calm that follows a storm as part of their ever-lasting demeanor. A year ago, her grandmama, who smells like baloney and sweat, and has a sweet but deceased husband, had to have the tree cut down due to its roots overreaching their stay in the soil. When the tree fell she picked up all of Harriet’s disappeared trinkets and placed them in a box she labeled ‘Harriet’, which she left in the attic instead of including it in the yard sale. One day, when grandmama dies she will be buried where the tree used to grow.