The Dreaming Tree

As Ostara and Jokul had climbed up (and fallen down from) the trees in the grove, they left their brushstrokes on the landscape. It was quite a sight as Ostara looked around the forest, bright and bold. Fanciful trees dotted the hillsides all around them.
Within the confines of the many-colored forest, it became hard for Ostara to find her way.
“Jokul, have you seen my tree?”
“Your tree? Which tree is your tree?”
“The tree where I once hid and you found me.”
“Oh, that tree,” he said. They had played hide-and-seek so many times that Jokul had no idea of which tree she spoke. “I am not sure. I think it is over there,” said Jokul. He waved his hand toward the top of the hill.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Not really. No, not at all.”
They hiked up the hill to the clearing where Ostara’s dreaming tree stood. Although his directions were accurate, there were several trees that looked identical. Ostara’s touch had found several trees on the hill.
“Is this your tree?” asked Jokul.
“I am not sure,” said Ostara. She wandered from one bright green tree to the next. She sat down beside each tree, fitting her body against the trunk. Not one of the trees seemed to fit just right.
“I am not sure this is the hill of my dreaming tree.”
High on the hill, a tree bent crookedly, its branches hanging awwardly over the ridge. Jokul pressed his hands against the tree. He flattened out his hands and rubbed them over the tree trunk. Knots and bends in the tree disappeared under his touch. He patted the roots flat and stepped back.
“Here, try this one,” he directed.
“This isn’t my tree,” answered Ostara.
“Just try it.”
Ostara sat against the tree. Comfortable, she settled down, ready for a nap. The sun shone above and the lake rippled below. Jokul reached up to a tree branch and plucked a leaf from one of its boughs.
“Here,” he said. Jokul pressed the leaf against Ostara’s tiny hand. He traced a line around the leaf and peeled it from her hand. Now the leaf had one big lobe and a smaller one, like a thumb.
“This tree is yours,” he said as he put the new leaf back in its place. The rest of the leaves in the tree changed shape, too. Each one, like a tiny bright green mitten. They were perfect copies of Ostara’s cupped hand.
“Here,” he said. He pressed another leaf into her hand. He pulled at her pinky finger, separating it from the other fingers. There were now three lobes – one big and two small ones, just like a hand with an extended pinky and an extended thumb. He replaced that leaf, too.
“Now you have a tree you can call your very own. It is unlike all the others. The leaves, like hands, wave in the breeze as you pass them by.
“It’s a lovely gesture,” said Ostara, “What shall we call this tree?”
Jokul stood next to Ostara, thinking of a name. As he did, the wind began to whistle with a slithering S sound.
“Sass-a-frass,” suggested Jokul.
“Sass-a-frass,” repeated Ostara, “I love it. My very own Sassafras tree.”
They sat side-by-side at the base of the tree. Whenever the wind blew, it whistled through the leaves, reminding Ostara of its name.
“Sassafras.”
They closed their eyes and dreamt of the grove.