Unasked for Favors Beneath the Sycamore

By Mahailey Oliver

My favorite day will always be the one where my shoelaces unraveled themselves beneath the American sycamore tree outside of the Liberal Arts building. Without hesitation you stopped us midstride, knelt, and retied them for me, your gracefully slender fingers looping and pulling until I was secured. The sentence tumbling from your mouth never even faltered in its descent, as though you were used to multitasking. Used to taking care of others while staying afloat yourself. I knew in that moment that I could get used to someone like you.

We continued to amble along the path, the East Texas autumn breeze billowing my hair away from my face. You tucked a strand behind my ear—again, effortlessly, wordlessly—and told me about your little sister. You told me the story of how she got her name, how she always borrowed your clothes because you were the same size, how she is the jewel of your mother’s eye. You didn’t even sound jealous, just nostalgic. Did you even guess that you were the jewel of mine?

We went on like this for a while—shoulders bumping in tandem as we balanced milkshakes, lattes, textbooks, scarves, jackets. Crunching crispy leaves and scattered pine needles beneath our scudded shoes. We unfolded our histories for one another like dusty books on the second floor of the library—a lineage only sought out by willing parties, never ones stumbled upon for leisurely boredom.

We were a beautiful pilot season, all rosy-cheeked and gentle laughter between rows of orange leaves and knee-high socks. We sipped cinnamon hot chocolate on your dorm’s bedroom floor while pouring over Keats, Byron, and Wordsworth. You braided my honey-blonde hair to keep it from falling into the sticky sweetness of my whipped cream. Yes, we were a picturesque aubade of something I could get used to very easily.

But alas, all semesters and seasons must come to an end. We parted ways, homeward-bound for winter break. On the drive, I could still feel the warmth of my gloved hands in yours as you wished me safe travels. I drove especially carefully for you, wondering if your sister would welcome you with open arms or if she’d be too wrapped up in your small-town drama to appreciate your return.

I posted a picture of the lights on my family’s Christmas tree, hoping you’d see. Hoping you would adore the pun in my caption. Hoping you would appreciate me when I’d return. But you didn’t text me back over the break, and you never liked my posts. I rang in the new year without ringing your line, though I considered it.

You faded like the melting snowflakes on my windowpane. But still, I remembered our time spent together; how the tying of my shoelaces unraveled me completely.

Five months later, I noticed you and another girl from my dorm bumping shoulders beneath our sycamore tree. I was not jealous, just nostalgic. With her slip-on sandals and short-cropped hair, she could have no idea what it meant to want you like I did. No idea how it felt to feel your fingertips’ graze in unasked-for favors. From the sound of my fleeting glimpse of the two of you, she chattered nonstop. Did she ever give you a chance to speak? Did your family history ever manage to drip its syrup-sweet cadence in the space between your jostling shoulders? Regardless, you still looked at her with such gentle joy in your eyes.

My favorite day, still, is the one where my shoelaces unraveled themselves beneath the American sycamore tree outside of the Liberal Arts building. Had they not, I would never know the familiarity of gentle kindness. I would have never gotten used to someone like you. I would have never grown into the kind of person who treated myself softly and with unasked-for favors. I never would have turned into a multitasker. You gave that to me, you sweet jewel beneath the sycamore.

Mahailey Oliver holds an English MA from Stephen F. Austin State University in Nacogdoches, Texas. Her poetry has previously appeared in Spark to Flame, Dipity Literary Magazine, and The Afterpast Review. Her body and soul are both made happy with a chilly autumn breeze and camping under starlight.