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.