Yuragwyn: Yours

---Chapter 1

∞Kaitra∞

The rough bark digs into the back of my arms and neck as I press against it, squeezing my loneliness between the two of us. I've run away up here again to my favorite tree, my only friend. Who knows how long it's been here? The trunk is wide, wider than my arm span, and the crown is tall, taller than all the others on this mountain top. The wispy fog is just now being burned away with the morning sun, which peers through the branches of my tree and all the rest to tickle the mountainside with its tantalizing winter warmth. I can hear the soft gurgle of the brook down in the valley as it weaves and curves down to the Conasauga. I fan the pages of my worn journal through my fingers. Of all the things in this world, only this small book and large tree are mine.

A papery, orange-cream colored leaf dances to my side. There is one thing I love: white oaks in winter. They speak of life, even though they are dormant. They bring mystery to a common wood, comfort to a cold mountain top.

They make me feel at home.

I don't know why I try to write. Most of the time I don't have anything to say, but I sit there, blue pen poised over a new page, and wait for something to dawn upon me.

Rarely does that happen.

After an hour of trained stillness, I give up and climb back down to my house. I hug the thin gray cardigan around my arms as the winter wind chides me for showing my face so early. The puttering of smoke from the chimney around the ridge brings physical comfort—my fingers are becoming numb with this frost—but I feel no emotional connection to house under it. My house is small, nestled in a small valley halfway down this mountain, tucked into a crevice like it was meant to be forgotten. Its walls, rough hardy plank weathered gray, hold three windows coated in the past spring's powdery, yellow pollen. I can see my mother, Adalynn, frying up some bacon and eggs for breakfast. My father, Rob, sits in his old, worn blue recliner beside the window farthest right, reading Sunday's paper, now six days old. My parents don't go down to town very often- the nearest one is twelve miles from here in the valley. During the school week I stay with a family friend.

I wince as the soft whine in the door betrays my return. My mother offers me a warm smile, but it does little for my chapped face and heart. She gestures to the table, and I sit down in a straight-back chair in front of a steaming plate and squeeze a bit of warmth into my fingers. My father sets his paper down on the coffee table and sits down beside me.

"How are the Smokies looking this morning, Kaitra?"

"Nothing's changed since yesterday," I smile wryly. He jabs my side with a thick, weathered finger, and though he does it daily, I can't help but jump a bit. "Dad!"

Something familiar passes over both of my parents' faces for just a moment. It's a look of sadness, guilt, and embarrassment. It comes at least once a day; it always has. Usually I think nothing of it, but today my parents recognize the look in each other's face.

My mother clears her throat and places her thin, wispy hand on my tanner, broader one. "Kaitra, we, we have something we need to tell you."

She and my father share another squeamish look. He stands and leaves the room, and I take a couple more distracted bites of my eggs, my eyes preferring to trace the wood rings in the table to making eye contact with my mom. I catch sight of a smear of glitter paint near the far edge and can't help but smile. It's funny how wood can capture every moment of your life like that. I run my fingers along the underside of the table until I can feel the gashes in the wood. They spell my name in bulky, awkward letters. I did that when I was five.