Every night I visit that place.

The blood red tree that calls to me in a way I cannot describe.

Have you ever been walking down the street and felt like someone was watching you? That’s what this felt like. The haptic buzz in my temporal lobe, indicating that there was a threat near me. But instead of wanting to run, I always wanted to be closer. It felt like it was calling me home. The promises of sipping chai tea in a winter cabin overflow my consciousness, reminding me of Christmas vacation with my mother before she died. Why did this place always want me to feel so safe?

The tree never really seemed like a tree. More of a pillar, a place marker. Except the place it was indicating, was never of any importance. Always just the jaundiced sky with hundred of stars, like spot lights all pointing towards the wooden tower that was calling my name. I would then begin my nightly journey towards the red.

While approaching the tree, I would always notice that I was never wearing shoes. The gritty soil filling between my toes and the sharp rocks threatening to puncture my soles never concerned me. What would concern me however was the bones. Always so many bones. Some animal, some human. The frequency increased as I neared the monolith. Every step becoming more difficult, I realize the soil is now saturated with a rusty liquid and growing deeper. First step was to my ankle, second was to my calf, then to my knee, until I was unable to take another stride. This is when I would begin to sink, slowly. The mud creeps up my breasts then into my mouth. Until finally I can’t see or feel anything.

Completely submerged in the iron smelling mud, I would never feel afraid. I feel at peace, as I realize that my bones are now the newest addition to the path.

Just then, and always then, my mother’s voice would say…

“Wake up”