The Stories They Could Tell.

I’ve crawled down that street everyday, going on two weeks now, in search of hope. I drive slowly, at a snail’s pace, barely breathing. To my right sits old money and, to my left, even older oak trees. I make my way down the esplanade, eyes focused on the tiptops of those tall trees. Trees that hold decades of stories they’ll never tell.


One of those stories is about a girl. More specifically, a girl in shambles, who wore open wounds and a camera. Now, if she had her way, she’d romanticize the story and replace the pathetic with the poetic. But, the trees don’t lie, and they know full well there’s nothing even remotely romantic about her story.

For months they watched her, damaged and lost. They heard her silent pleas and her not-so-silent cries. Some might even claim she blew her nose on her sleeve a time or two. (Lies.) They’d look on for hours while she sat in her head, watching hope rebuild its life out of nothing, desperate to do the same.

The trees shook hands, placing secret bets on this girl. Some thought she’d come out the other side whole again. Some were sure she’d just come out more broken. And others didn’t care one way or the other, only engaging  periodically with deep sighs and even deeper eye-rolls.

Months went by without much change. Then one day they noticed it. It was subtle and could have easily been missed, had they not come to know her so well. But they did know her, better than anyone else, because beneath them was the only place she dared expose herself completely. Slowly, this girl began to smile more and cry less. With her shoulders no longer hunched, she was taller than they’d once thought. As her black and white world slowly turned to color, her face began to glow. Then one day she laughed so loudly it startled them all. And she hasn’t stopped all that much since.

She’d come out whole.

The losers paid their debt to the winners. And, though they wouldn’t admit it, the ones who didn’t care one way or the other even cracked a small smile.


Yesterday, as the sun was settling in for the night, I crawled down that street once more. Having just about given up, I began picking up speed. As I neared the end of the esplanade and was calling it a night, I finally saw what I’ve been searching for. Hope.

Two black crowned herons perched atop those same tall trees. They were the babies I said goodbye to last year. I’ve thought about them countless times since, constantly hoping they’d beat the odds and make it back to me – whole. And, they did. I can’t wait to to welcome the rest of them.

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I fell out of my car gracefully and ran over to them.

Hi guys! HI! Welcome back! And thank you. THANK YOU.

I stood below them in that very same spot, now a very different girl. Alone, but not lonely. Unsure, but not scared. Whole and full of hope.

I said goodnight, then sat in my car for sometime crying now-happy tears. Some might even claim I blew my nose on my sleeve a time or two.


14 thoughts on “The Stories They Could Tell.

  1. You inspire me, your walk through this world is only beginning, I’m older and I see myself in you so many years ago. Proud of you, keep walking, head up shoulders back and amazed at all you see in this world, the little things no one else sees. Hugs

  2. Allison, your writing is amazing. Told from the perspective of the trees. Love it! So much allegory, too. Brought tears to my eyes! We love you and your stories! Can’t wait for B’s book!

  3. You are so talented. Your pictures and writing bring others so much joy. Good to hear you are feeling much better. I know from experience that recovering from depression is a long road uphill but in the end we are much stronger.

  4. Allison, this was truly beautiful in it’s depth and in it’s glory. You are so talented yet humble which is a rare and precious way to be. So happy that you are feeling whole and enjoying life again. I am older have crawled back from depression when I was your age. It opened my eyes to appreciate even the smallest things an made me stronger. Keep moving onward and looking up into those trees. Your adventure is just begining! Hugs, a friend and admirer in Pennsylvania.

  5. My dear Allison … You outdid yourself on this one! As I read the smile on my face got bigger and bigger! You definitely have a gift … I’m also glad all your bird babies are coming home! Thank you for for sharing your adventures!

  6. Your writing doesn’t just touch my brain, it touches my heart. Remember, we are all works in progress. I have seen you progress while enjoying your posts. It has been uplifting to watch you through your words.

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