Trees

Things change. Bitter stones of cherries grow into trees; blossoms grow into fruits to delight the tongue. His love has changed me from a flat grey girl to a woman the vibrant scarlet of a cherry.

We argue laughingly for much of the time we see eachother; we have both learned the art of debate and are keen on perfecting our skills. Of cherries, of love, of hate -- we talk of everything.

Almost anything, anyway. I haven't yet told my love about Tom, who comes to me more and more often in corners, trying to seduce me to him. But I grow stronger and stronger, and he is merely a shadow of my path. I need only think of my laughing, arguing love and walk away.

He does not understand why I love him, why I try so hard to patch up our frequent arguments, but I know he loves me. I do not understand why he would love me; I am not beautiful, nor particularly kind.

But we both would dance under the blossoms of cherry trees for the rest of our lives, and our love is as wild as the howl of a werewolf and as sweet as the fruit of the perfect cherry.

We were wed under the blossoms of cherry trees; Ron and Hermione had finally consented, and my love has finally come to terms that I love a werewolf, that I love him for all he is and all he isn't.

So, although not everything is perfect, I can remain content in the circle of my love's arms and think about change, of cherries, of the cottage we made beneath the cherry trees.

Hermione looks at me with sad eyes now; she is carrying Ron's child. How does my brother not see the pain in her eyes, the grief for the death of their best friend, whom she loved? They find comfort in eachother, but even I, who am inept with the feelings of others, know that her brown eyes long to meet those emerald green ones of the boy who died to save us all, to save the brown eyed girl who used to be his merry friend.

So her tree has wilted, but it is a slow death and my brother does not notice that she grows withered, that her smiles, like blossoms, come less and less frequently, that the rain of her tears is needed.

She becomes the start, twisted insanity of a dead tree and I, like a cherry tree just coming into bloom, am the only one to see it.

My hazel-eyed love twists the ring he has placed on my finger yesterday, when he pulled me unexpectedly in my white dress robes and had us married under the deluge of cherry blossoms. He seemed to shine with joy in his own black robes, and we danced under the cherry trees in an orchard once thought haunted.

White and black - the colors for death and celebration, life and death. Are we, like trees, the celebration of both? A tree is a death of the old self, the old bitter seed, but the birth of a myriad of good things through hardship.

We were married in the haunted orchard; we are already on the brink of insanity.

But the wise woman who is my sister-in-law once told me that insanity could be blissful. And though she is like an old, dying tree, I will believe her.

Remus and I will dance under the cherry blossoms and will be reborn in eachother's arms. What sort of life could be more blissfully insane than that?