Aspen

Our roots were entwined from my birth, Aspen and I.
I was her confidant, I knew her routine—
She knew most of mine.

She mostly talked to me in autumn afterlight,
When people forgot about both of us.
That suited me anyhow.

I think we were kindred in all ways except height.
She was always taller than me.
Always prettier, better.

On All Saints Day 1993, I vowed to not visit anymore.
She let me free-fall and break my femur.
Enough of childhood games.

November 2, 1993 I found an ax in the garage.
Father deemed her absolutely rotten.
We flogged her at her base.

I pressed a leaf from her into chapter four.