Chapter 4: Weeping Willow

In my darkest hour,

I can still remember the shape of that willow leaf.

I had taken it,

with soft supplication and a prayer of repentance,

from a looming, monstrous weeping tree in the throes of Fall.

It was sweeping my sullied street

with branches swinging like clothes drying on a line in early Spring.

Slender countless veins raced outwards,

from a center that arched once halfway up,

before straightening out, loose,

wiggling like a snake uncurling from a Summer nap on a hot rock of slate.

My leaf smiled at me with its emerald-boa green gaze,

ecstatic to be in my hands

before a Turkish winter's icy grasp would pry it from its perch,

swinging as a lazy fisherman's line would in still waters.

And between my fingers, rubbing it gently

I coaxed this leaf to tell me its story,

from blazing kiwi to mandarin orange,

from my darkened day to immortality imprinted on my skin.

But the tremendous crack! of my wrist and elbow on firm ground was years before this poem, a moment of terror that conflicted with the comforting buzz of my tattoo artist's needle now tracing slender willow branches along my spine. I could feel damp sweat forming in the concave dent of my chest, dripping down onto the cherry-red vinyl chair from where my stomach pressed against it, my body slung over it in reverse. The clump of needles scraping along what had to be the trunk, brushed over my column sending mini-shock waves into an area of my brain that had been ready to drift off and now remained stung with anger. Yet Cemal talked quietly and worked quickly, and soon memories came swimming, like a lake smoothing out its ripples from a fisherman's trade.

It had taken me and my cousin's three hours to hike up into the mountains far enough to find a ravine suitable for our leaping game. The objective was simple: find vines long and dangerous enough to launch ourselves at least fifteen feet over a ravine. Our two fathers trailed behind, engaged in a discussion on the effects urban moral decay has had on church planting strategy. It was the summer of 7th grade, and I still haven't been able to decide whether God was asleep on the job or merely watching with one eye open when I snapped the bones in my forearm and bent my elbow backwards at a 90 degree angle. Were joints supposed to be able to do that? But I didn't know this screaming pain yet. I knew the fresh jungle air lifting my hair the color of chestnut felt terrific, and I knew I had never known adrenaline like the small peaceful moment at the top of the swing where you either had to swing back or fall down. 

In this particular moment, after a half-dozen successful attempts and the line five deep behind me of cousins panting, awaiting another turn with palms on knees, I backed up an extra amount for that childish attempt at more speed, and hurtled myself outwards with stunning ferocity. "Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeahhh!" I whooped, tarzan-ing my body into the open, rocks like a giant's broken teeth tumbled around the ravine below me like a game of godly dice. And that sweet spot, the top of the swing, came too quickly. Twisting my head around to look back, hearing my cousin's whooping congratulations for such a steep swing, I suddenly realized the taut vine I once held had become slack. Or rather, having no prior experience at slack vines, I came to know that the sweet spot had turned sour, and a flash at dazzling speed in my mind threw up the image of Goofy grabbing at a rope and never getting higher. "Silly thought," passed half-way out my lips, interrupted by a scream tearing the Andean calm in half, scattering animals no one could see deeper into their retreats. I could have fallen for hours, days, anything to avoid that crunch of bone on ground and upside down image of my father leaping down and over lichen-smothered rocks towards me and my backwards bent arm. 

I can't tell if the tracing needle skipped a beat, or if I just flinched at the movie replaying in my mind, but Cemal needed to finish soon. "Az kalda, arkadaşım, almost." His reassuring words couldn't dispel the pain, yet moments later, staring into the mirror at a bloodied tree, sun-burnt red skin smarting, it was impossible to hide my ear to ear smile. A weeping willow, branches moving in their ink graced half of my back, tree #3, tattoo number sixteen, my mom's artistry come to life. "Harika, dostum, çok güzel, it's perfect" I told my Turkish artist in half-weary half-giddy breaths. 

Then softly, to the tree, "I've come home. I've come home."