Dendrochronology

By Anna Hehir

Mick examined the fallen tree, unique histories immortalised in each growth ring.

One ring for the freeze that took her toe. She joined Grandpa ice-fishing to glimpse inside his mind. She sat motionless beside him too long and went to hospital after. Without fish, Grandpa said it was a waste.

One ring for the fire-ravaged summer. Grandpa barked orders; Mick obeyed. When the cabin was spared, Grandpa’s acid-tongue celebrated. She wore the burns.

The latest ring, unremarkable, doesn’t mention the cabin going quiet, the emptiness that followed, doesn’t count Mick’s tears.

Wood can’t capture all histories. Mick preferred it this way.