Today’s words all come from the same page. PAMPAS is a place where trees don’t grow. PAMPAS GRASS has feathery flowers. And even though we prefer the word spoil, the last one is PAMPER.
Legend says that once there were trees where now there is only grass. Millenary trees. Trees with a tough bark, that almost touched the sky. The birds pitied those trees, that had to die a thousand times in order to reach the sky. The birds pitied them because the trees had to wear that dead bark as if it were a veil, in never-ending mourning.
That is why the birds decided to pamper the trees. They decided to strip them of their bark, and put an end to their mourning. So that the trees could enjoy the sky they had died to reach. Piece by piece, the birds got rid of the bark. They soothed the wounds with their feathers. But they didn’t know when to stop. And soon the trees disappeared without a trace.
It’s been a thousand years, and no tree has come close to touching the sky again. The birds have never stopped pampering their descendants, and they can proudly say that there are no mourners in their grassland. Now there are only flowers that look like feathers. And the birds choose to see that as an expression of gratitude.
In order to touch the sky, I died a thousand times. I mourned. Under a veil made of bark. Each and every one of my deaths. The birds told me that all had been in vain. That the sky couldn’t be touched. That it was empty, and there was nothing to touch. The birds pitied me, because even if I had been able to touch the sky, my bark was dead, and I wouldn’t have been able to feel anything. That is what they said. That is how they justified tearing me apart. They didn’t know that the sky had been inside me, filling my heart, all along. Until they tore me apart. Letting it leak.
I’m a tree. I don’t have a heart. The sky told me that there was no point in hardening something that I would have kept only to myself. The sky taught me to harden my bark, my outer shell, the veil that stood between me and everyone else. I died. A thousand deaths. My bark grew tougher, harder, with every one of them. I couldn’t feel anything. No one could reach me, no one could change me. The sky praised me, because I wouldn’t have to share its fate. I would never become another empty sky. That was before the birds. Before their pity and their sharp beaks. Now the sky can touch me. I can feel it, like a heart inside me. And the sky hates me for it.
I was so close. Only one more death. And I would have finally touched the sky. I only needed to mourn one more time. My tears would have left me void. And there would have been the sky, finally within my reach. A part of me, that no one could take away. But the birds said that it wasn’t healthy. I would have understood it, if the birds had said that the sky wasn’t meant to be caged. That it would be cruel and unfair. At the very least, I would have forgiven them those hurtful words. But they said that it wouldn’t be healthy for me. That the emptiness I sought was crippling, and the only reason the sky could live with it was because it had birds flying in it.
The sky told me that remembering would always be an act of mourning. A thing, a feeling, a moment long past. The empty sky told me that it had been robbed of its memories. And I chose to die. A thousand times. I chose to remember, I chose to mourn. My tribute to that sky I had always looked up to would be not ending as empty as it. I made a promise to myself. That I would never let go of my bark. That I would always remember the sky. But the birds never asked. They saw my bark, they called it grief and stripped it of everything else. They pitied me, until there was nothing left of me. And I didn’t even live on in their memories. Because that is not a mercy birds show.
I’ve heard that there used to be trees here. Now there is only grass, with feathers where once there would have been flowers. A reminder, that we owe the birds our gratitude. For delivering us from grief. From the grief of trying to reach the sky, and dying a little bit more with every failure. But no matter how hard I try, I don’t feel it. I still think that they were wrong. That those trees didn’t deserve to be torn apart. That if they wanted gratitude, the birds should have torn apart the sky. That same sky, that still lingers above us. Above me. Begging to be touched.
Out of pity, the birds tore apart the trees. They didn’t want them to die, they didn’t want them to mourn. I’ve asked them many times, but they have never given me the word I need. I know that mourning was bad, because it pulled those trees away from life. I know that missing is good, because that is what the birds want from us. They gave us feathers to remember them by, after all. But the sky is still there. I’ve never touched it, but that is what I want. I’m sad. But I don’t have a name for this sadness that pulls my head up. The sky was never mine, I cannot mourn it. These feathers are mine, but they don’t lead to the sky I long to touch. I feel the pull. But I don’t have a word for it. And I don’t know if the birds will pity me too.
I don’t want to be pitied. I don’t want the birds to come back. I know what their pity did to the trees. And I fear the day they finally find a reason to pity me too. I can feel their stares. These feathers are like a pair of eyes. I fear the day they finally see into my thoughts, into that dark place where I cannot help but dream about growing tall. As tall as those trees of old. Every day that goes by without being allowed to reach for the sky, I die a little bit more. In the dark. In that place inside me, that the birds haven’t found yet. In that place that lives in wait. Of a pity that will certainly come.
Sometimes I wonder if the trees of old were born out of love. I wonder if such a thing even exists. I was born out of pity, the birds told me so. These feathers are a reminder, that I wouldn’t be here if pity hadn’t made them tear apart those tall, tallest of trees. The birds haven’t said anything, but I know that we are tall. That compared to other grass, we are tall. And I don’t want to be torn apart. I know that I am not a tree, I know that most likely the sky doesn’t love me. But I don’t want the birds to eat me. If I could ask for mercy, I would like to be blue. I would like to be untouchable. Just like unconditional love.
Don’t you worry, it will be over soon. My beak is sharp, I will get rid of all the parts you have hardened in your grief. I will make you forget. It may hurt at first, but I will be here to soothe all your wounds. I will be here to embrace your heart, your true self, the one you have prematurely buried under all that grief.
I’m a bird. I was blessed with wings, but I cannot give them to you, because I was taught that gifts aren’t to be regifted. I don’t want you to think that you don’t matter to me, because you do. I feel your grief. I may not be able to cry with you, but you are welcome to think of me as a tear. I will help you shed your grief. That will be my gift to you.
I will protect you, I will spare you the grief of never being able to touch the sky. You, my dearest grass, you will never feel the need to dream, the need to escape. I will keep you close to the ground. I will cherish you and I will make sure that you grow to love your place in this life.
Every feather is a blessing. Feathers are soft, they were meant to soothe all the hurts of this cruel world. The trees’ grief was too much. Their barks were too hard, there weren’t enough feathers in the world. They couldn’t be reached. They couldn’t be made to feel anything but their own grief. But we won’t let the same fate befall the grass. We will bless them with feathers from the beginning. So that even when the Winds call us away from them, they will still have the means to take good care of themselves.
Mourning Tree: My child, let this be my warning to you. You don’t want the pity of any bird. They will tear you apart, bit by bit, until there is nothing left of the strong, resilient tree you once were.
Feathery Grass: It’s too late. I am the product of those birds’ pity. The ones that tore you apart, but left the sky intact. I am soft. Every time I look at the sky, it hurts. So, so much.
Mourning Tree: Soon, there will be no more trees. The birds pity us. They call it mercy. Erasing our way of life. Separating us from the sky. If you remember us at all, please don’t forget that once we stood tall.
Feathery Grass: The feathers the birds left with us taught me that pity was thinking of someone else. But I don’t have that in me. I want to mourn your loss. I want to lament the loss of tall trees like you. But I am self-centered. When I look up at the sky, I don’t see what you were. I only see what I will never be.
Mourning Tree: Touching the sky wasn’t just my dream. I inherited that dream from all the trees that came before me. It’s not just my loss. What hurts me the most is that it will be your loss too. And I fear that when the birds finally tear us apart, there won’t even be a splinter of hope, for you to find.
Feathery Grass: I have heard the birds say that nothing hurts more than a dream that doesn’t come true. But that’s a lie. I found the splinters. I know that dreams can be destroyed. All the hard work. All the hope. That is what hurts the most.
Mourning Tree: It’s done. All the trees like me have been torn apart. And those birds are still flying in the sky. Without remorse. Without an ounce of grief or a memory weighing them down.
Feathery Grass: Did the birds even spare us a thought? If they didn’t want us to suffer the heartbreak of an out-of-reach dream, why did they leave their feathers with us? Why didn’t they make sure that we wouldn’t continue growing skywards, like every tree that preceded us?