a misreading of the label deciduous forest by a student new to the country. preceded by a question from her younger sister can you name all the countries in central Asia? as we walked along the Mississippi River. carefully, I pronounce Kazakhstan—hers, a smile—Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan until she’s satisfied. we sweet-talk a soft-shell turtle making its home in the sand. we both wear our hair in one long braid. she holds my arm while we walk and screams anytime she’s frustrated. but it is, isn’t it? delicious? so many berries to learn: black blue mul rasp. when you leave a place, its sweetness stays as a tickle in the back of your throat. I guess I wouldn’t know. I’ve never lived more than a mile from a tree willing to give me something I recognize. but when my student learns deciduous, she’ll learn another kind of distance: from the branch to the earth, from the root that gives us accident, cadaver, decay. to my colleague’s dismay, I let the children climb some purple-stained branches. I like a kid who’s almost in trouble. the apple falls, but not far.
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Ellen K. Fee is an educator and writer from the Upper Midwest. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and appears in The Cincinnati Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Flyway, and stamped into the sidewalks of St. Paul, her favorite city. She can be found on social media @ellenkfee.