You Will Be a Tree
It was the last day of spring. Maybe that’s why the mares were walking slowly when the morning opened. They went out to the meadow in silence, longing for the earth left damp by the recent rain. In the air, a distinct smell. It’s a different smell and I can't quite put my finger on it yet, but later I'll try to describe it and I’ll think of a dream: the end of something, a farewell, a threshold.
There are still traces on the roof of the recent cold that’s now gone. Lichen, remnants of a brief whirlwind, a few loose fragments that no longer fit where they belong, waiting for someone to climb up and put them back in their original place. Is everything that’s left unsaid suspended here in the air? Maybe it’s being held up by the swallows that have made their way back home. Some will nest; others bob and sway between the power lines and the new paths made by wild animals that open up the grass every night.
In the cherry trees, a harsh sound, ceaseless, jumping impatiently around us. It's the starlings. It's as if the trees and small berries are not enough for them. Later I will learn that these birds do not follow the entire flock: only their seven closest neighbors. This way they can maintain the integrity of the group, which is called a chattering or murmuration, and respond almost instantly to a predator or a change of route. That's also how they fill the sky at sunset.
There will be a patch of land where the grass will take longer to grow. Something stops there. The light, the water, some hands try to arrange some stones carefully, to mark out the space where the soil will need its own rhythm, where we wanted to leave a tree.
We didn't know what to do with that tiny body, still warm even when I wrapped it in an old kitchen towel. The puppy had arrived earlier in the spring, hungry and in pain, his eyes clouded over with sorrow. He didn't live long, just a few weeks. But he left behind a ritual: that of waiting for his calm every time he was fed very slowly, away from the others. The house seemed fuller when he slept.
We didn’t give him a name. Not because of indifference, callousness, or carelessness. Now I know that we wanted him to dwell in other languages: that of the fruit tree and the neighing of horses, that of the fox who sneaks in before nightfall to eat the cherries that drop to the ground. Perhaps, without knowing it, we protected him from the bond that sometimes imposes itself when a name is given. From that very human gesture of thinking that everything that is spoken becomes part of us.
I chose a species of tree where the flowers are hidden inside the fruit. I didn't want to bury him alone. A tree that always comes back, like memory, even in places where you think nothing can grow. I planted a fig tree with him, so that one day he can be leaves, shade, sweetness, and food for others.
The storm arrived the next morning. We woke up to rain. In that half-asleep state, I wanted to believe that summer had understood that first chore it had to do: to water this wound.
Rooting a tree—I understand now—is not just about digging the ground and planting. It's about staying, caring for the soil, and being able to return home. Now it's there, still so fragile. An almost bare stem and two tiny leaves at ground level teach me that growing also means realizing that there is no way to hold on to what we love. But there is a way to make room for it.
Maybe one day—when we are no longer here—someone will approach that fig tree, pick a piece of ripe fruit, and put it in their mouth. Maybe they won't know about you or us, but they will share your light, and an echo will continue to resonate. That will also be a language.
María Sánchez learned to walk alongside a herd of goats she never stops dreaming about. For years she has lived in a village in Galicia, where she tends to fruit trees and animals while listening to stories that remain unrecorded/undocumented. A writer and a veterinarian who works with breeds indigenous to the region/to Spain facing extinction, she is the author of four books, including Land of Women, which was published by Trinity Press and translated by Curtis Bauer. Her books have been translated into English, French, German, and Slovak, and her work has received numerous awards and honors. Every month, she writes about everything surrounding and influencing food in Comer (La Vanguardia) and Buena sombra.
Curtis Bauer is a poet and translator whose writing has been published in numerous magazines and literary journals including The Common, The New Yorker, American Poetry Review and Tin House. He lives in Spain and Texas.
