By Raphael O’Suna

Today I carved a great big heart in an ancient sycamore tree.

I put an arrow through it, but did not disturb the letters. While I was carving, a small child named Sienna sat down by me and watched. Next to her sat Tooky the dog and Miso the cat.

I could hear Minnie the minor bird away in the distance in its cage, trying to repeat the words that DeWitt had taught him.

Flowers scented the air and bees murmured their immemorial tunes. Way off in the distance, I could hear the waves breaking and rumoring around the cove.

I knew that once I had finished the last scalpel strokes, the two of us would be bound in the bark for as long as the great shade tree stood. It was as if I was signing a contract or covenant; as if I were promising something; as if I were publishing the bands of a union.

I said to Sienna: “Wouldn’t it be something if lightning struck my inscribed heart just as I was about to finish the last letter “C.” The child sat mute. Tooky’s recent hip surgery made him seem sad and pained.

It was then that I noticed that someone else had carved a message into the bark of this same tree. The carving was higher and not so nakedly visible. It said simply: “Clint has a broken heart.” And there was a date. It was a long time ago and Clint was probably dead now.

The heart that I carved seemed secure, enclosed, binding. But nothing ever is. The bark is dead so it didn’t bleed, but dreams may bleed a wish and a wish may bleed a dream.