by Andrea D. Hutchinson

Created on: August 16, 2010   Last Updated: September 14, 2010

Felicia stood, with her small son, resting against the gnarled swamp maple on the edge of town. That feeling returned, that something terrible happened here, but what? The tension on her face was from the strain of trying to remember why she sensed what she did here. At her core she felt the darkness of tragedy, but the memories would not surface.

Felicia had stopped to rest, here at the tree, daily. Partly to rest from walking Walter home from school, partly in hopes of jogging her memory.

“Mommy, I’m hungry.” Walter said politely.

“I know boy.” Felicia replied, affectionately. His cap tilted on damp, blonde curls made her smile deeper. It was June; summer had begun. They started again for home, just the other side of the edge of town, and the tree.

As they entered their home, a romantic Victorian with a white picket fence, Michael came to mind. A chill flooded her, he would be home soon. Dread rose in her heart. She could never put her finger on why. She shut the front do on the swamp maple, looming menacingly.

Michael would come in, kiss her cheek and look deeply into her tired eyes. He would tell her about his day and then, somehow, he would be telling lovely, romantic stories of their love. She had mentioned to him only once that she had no memories of her life. It was after that first confession, years before that the stories began. There was that chill again, Felicia shut the kitchen window. Michael told the fairytales over and again, like he was building a history, of their courtship; fairytales, to win any girl’s heart. He continually asked if she remembered. She never answered, she would just smile.  

Handing Walter his peanut butter sandwich she said, smiling, “You’re a good kid!”

Walter was her only joy. She didn’t recall all the romance and joys the fairytales held, far worse though she didn’t recall her wedding or Walter’s birth, nothing. It was as if she had been created right where she was now, nothing before.

She thought, just then, that something might be wrong with her mind.

Listening intently for Michael’s return Felicia stood staring at the swamp maple on the edge of town, from the window. “That tree.” Felicia she whispered absently.

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