Natural Comfort: A Metaphor

Camille Leblanc

He is the tree trunk to my ever-growing ivy. I shoot off toward the soft blue sky, reaching for glistering rays of sunny aspirations. The words of encouragement he whispers as we sit hip-to-hip are as powerful as the roots attaching me to the earth. I grow. I grow tall until my leaves are covered with the shade of an incoming storm. Raindrops begin to fall, mixing with the salty tears that occasionally race down my face. A harsh wind blows, and my vines dramatically sway with nothing to hold onto. I feel alone. I fall, making my way back toward the dirt I arose from. Suddenly, hands rest gently around my waist, and my cries are muffled by a soft cotton shirt. My vines wrap around the trunk of the tree that the storm blew me into. I melt into the warmth of his room, and take a deep breath. The storm howls desperately, making its presence known by violently slapping drops against the window, intruding on our moment. While I watch the rain from our sanctuary, he reaches for my hands. Our fingers intertwine. He was always a willow tree, dancing gorgeously in nature’s gale, and I was the vine of ivy, twirling around his branches, stretching out to reach for the sun of our aspirations.