This was where the birch grew until it no longer would, until she chopped it down once she was old enough and strong enough to cut it down with her machete by a thousand aching gouges, chops, cuts, slices. And into each cut she whispered her secret tragedies until (breathless, wordless, sick grin on her lips, tired eyes, raw hands) she flung the dying thing down beside its jagged stump. Child nowhere to be found. No one there to witness the decay except us.