The magnolia comes into the room and asks me what I’ve done with her new shoes.
I shake my head, because no, I haven’t seen the magnolia’s new shoes and just how many shoes does a tree need, and do they have laces or buckles, and is there a specialist shop for that? The questions keep coming until the magnolia scratches her crown and flounces out of the room, trailing petals in her wake.
I feel bad when that happens, because the magnolia’s blossom is so lovely. Each flower is an elegant pink cup, the shape of a champagne flute, tall and proud, and when they fall, the flowers resemble tears, and the magnolia’s limbs look naked. I follow the trail of petals, picking them up as I go, and I place them in the fruit bowl. I lay them out delicately, so that they resemble a living thing once again, and the magnolia, who is sulking by the kitchen door, acknowledges my effort.
‘It was silly really, buying shoes,’ she says.
‘Not at all,’ I reply. ‘Together, we’ll find them. They’re probably in the cupboard under the stairs. Everything ends up there.’
The magnolia nods. ‘I can sense the wind,’ she says. ‘My petals are almost gone.’ I discern her mouth and eyes in the twisted bark of her trunk. She smiles sadly. This flowering is short, always too short. I wish I could pause time, somehow, but I know she must leave.
When she goes, the magnolia casts a shadow that stretches across the rest of the afternoon, covering everything.
Later, I find the shoes were in the garden where the magnolia used to stand. I try them on, but they do not fit.
---
Emily Devane is a writer from West Yorkshire. She has won prizes,
including the Bath Flash Fiction Award, a Northern Writers' Award and a
Word Factory apprenticeship. Emily teaches creative writing and works at
The Grove Bookshop in Ilkley, where she runs the writing group and
helps with events.
