Thoughts are branches of the mind.
That was my mother’s theory.
She liked to imagine that the mind started as a mere seed. Over time this seed is watered with understanding, which in turn, grows into knowledge. And so, the tree develops, each branch signifying some new discovery.
The branches expand in the mind, much like a tree that refuses to be confined to one plot of land, breaching the forbidden domain of the neighbour’s garden.
A bud would blossom at the end of a twig, green with information when the mind had reached its capacity.
Over time the leaves would diminish and die. But the scarred remains of obscure memories would still be there. They act as a reminder, ironically, of the people and places you now cease to recognise.
There is hope however: my mother would emphasise, when she remembered her story, that the bud would still be there, ready for the spring of reawakened memories.
My mother’s mind was cluttered with the decaying leaves of autumn. The branches that were responsible for who I was seemed to recede over the years.
The same disease is decaying my mind. This was my only memory of my mother.
Tomorrow I may have forgotten her, along with my own children.
Oh, how I long for spring.
About the Author
Dani is a writing student, whose first novel, Not the Ideal Fairytale is due to be published later this year. She is an avid tea drinker, which makes her title for this piece extremely appropriate. Dani is open to writing in all types of genres, but favours fantasy/sci-fi.