Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

That night, it wasn't until Aunt Marie cried herself into exhaustion that Jonah stepped forward and gently carried her back to her room. I fetched a
warm, damp towel and carefully wiped her face and hands, erasing the tracks of tears and dirt. But I knew that the wounds in her heart were beyond
my reach.
After Aunt Marie drifted off to sleep, Jonah settled back onto the sofa, and I quietly took a seat next to him. Under the soft glow of the lamp, he stared
up at the ceiling, his eyes red-rimmed. After what felt like an eternity, he finally broke the silence, "Are you scared?"
I shook my head, "No."
There's an old tale that says if you hang wind chimes on a tree, the sound will guide the spirits of the departed back home. When my mom passed, I
hung a set of wind chimes by the door every night, hoping for a sign. But for two long years, I never once dreamed of her.
It was my dad who smashed them, insisting I stop with the nonsense that was disturbing his peace and haunting his nights with nightmares.
So what is there to fear, really? What you dread might be others yearn for, and can never have. I was not scared, but my heart was in pain. It hurt
because even when people could barely hold themselves together, they still reached out to offer warmth to others. It hurt because, despite the world's
many scars, some people still tried to stitch it back together. It hurt because we all seemed to be wrestling with our own demons, stumbling through
the same world.
Jonah carried so much heartache that just sitting beside him pulled me into his deep well of unspoken sorrow and loneliness. It's like standing on the
edge between life and death, abandoned by both. I felt utterly powerless.
The next morning, Aunt Marie woke up. She remembered everything from the night before. She gave me a sheepish smile and reassured me that
she'd never hurt me. Her words brought back memories of Angie, always gentle and cautious.
I felt a lump in my throat, but I knew Angie wasn't dumb, and Aunt Marie wasn't crazy. They were simply navigating pain that others couldn't
comprehend.
I told her, "Aunt Marie, your dancing is beautiful. Can you teach me?"
Her eyes filled with tears, but she quickly brushed them away and nodded, saying, "Of course."
From that day on, under the sprawling old tree, there were two figures—one big, one small—dancing together, no longer alone.
Yet, it seems like I didn’t inherit any knack for art or dance. No matter how hard I tried, it just wouldn't click. Aunt Marie, ever patient, guided me step
by step, until I could dance with some semblance of grace.

She shared how she met Jonah's father through this very dance, and he adored watching her dance. Her love for the oak tree made it his favorite too.
Now, after he passed away, she seemed to have changed her mind.
Her voice was steady, balancing a daytime cheerfulness with a nighttime melancholy.
In our little town, secrets don’t last long. Gossip is like wildfire, and people's words can be daunting. So when Aunt Marie headed to the farmers'
market, I insisted on going with her.
The town has two markets. We live on the west side, so we usually hit up the West Market. The Evans family, on the east side, frequents the East
Market. While the town isn't huge, I rarely ventured to the East Market.
The East Market is bigger and bustling with energy. At the entrance, a middle-aged guy stood next to an old bicycle, its sides weighed down with
large bags and a rusty bell hanging off the handlebars.
"We need hair! Top dollar for hair!"