Section 8 Agency

A single budding maple tree, struggling to take root in the mixed compost of soil and sand sits gleefully in the center of its faux wooden, store bought mini fence, intent on forcing a point to be made about self-preservation. Margaret focuses her attention on this single marked off spot in an otherwise barren yard.

            “I’ll water you everyday, “ she says to the little maple tree, hoping he hears her and wills himself to grow to please her in return.

            On the sun bleached landscapes of Florida, northerners flock like snowbirds to postcard images of sugar sweet beaches, only to find inequality and class distinction waterways. Some of those northern birds never return, others on a constant loop, and others like Margaret cannot afford to do either. Hoping to capture a postcard northern home in her own backyard, she plants a little maple tree.

            Four seasons come and go and Margaret has yet to see one leaf change color or his branches grow from the sapling he was when she brought him home.

            “What am I doing wrong little maple tree?” she asks hoping her relationship with the little tree developed to the point of warranting a reply.

            Silence.

            As the seasons continued to come and go, Margaret saw no change, not in her little maple tree, not in her barren landscape, not in her daily routine. She grew weary.

            “What am I to give you my little maple?” Margaret asks out of despair hoping one last time for a reply.

            Another four seasons came and went before Margaret decided her little maple tree was dead and she could no longer go on waiting to see his glorious leaves grow and change into vibrant hues of yellow, red, burnt orange and fading greens. Margaret grabbed her limited bundle of gardening tools and began to unearth her tiny maple tree, shaking the soil and sand from its roots. When without notice, a shocking sharp pain grabbed Margaret deep inside her chest and forced the very last breath out of her body. As she collapses to the ground, her arms wrapping lovingly around her little maple tree’s roots, smashing the tiny faux wooden fence into the ground when it began to rain.

            As the rain puddled in Margaret’s arms, washing the little maple trees roots of soil and sand a sprout began and by the days end a tiny green leaf appeared. The heavy storm blew soil and sand around the barren wasteland relocating it to spots unfamiliar. The heavy rains weighed down Margaret’s little maple tree, back down deep into the earth, as its roots grabbed on for dear life, forcing itself back into the carefully cared for soil.

            Margaret lay lifeless long after the storm passed and long after the four seasons came and went again. Each season brought new growth in the little maple tree, as the rounds of rain loosened the soil and sand sinking Margaret deeper and deeper into the earth. The once little maple tree sapling grew tall and strong, sprouting wonderful leaves of yellow, red, burnt orange, and fading green. The four seasons continued to pass and all the little tree could do was hope that Margaret was pleased.