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Karma’s A Witch

McCormick Anderson

    Let’s just say that my sister is a strong believer in karma. I, however, am not. There is no evidence supporting some mystical force that controls what’s right and what’s wrong. Typically I have no reason to believe in it. However, I must admit that one time it did seem as though there was a mysterious force that gave me what I deserved. On that particular occasion, “karma” came in the form of a tree branch.
    One fall day my grandparents had taken my sister and me out to a piece of land that we call “the farm”. It isn’t really a farm. We don’t grow anything, and we don’t raise any animals. To be honest, nothing productive ever comes out of it. However, that piece of land is perfect for riding four wheelers, shooting clay pigeons, and overall, just hem hawing around. A busted-up, asphalt driveway leads from the road to a giant field with several trails leading out into the surrounding woods. A pole barn with a camper underneath it sits right beside the driveway.
    We hadn’t planned to stay for very long, just an hour or two. The Crispness in the air suprised me for early September. I was wandering In the woods near the campsite with a machete in my hand, just cutting limbs and clearing out the dead wood. Just then, my sister ran into the woods towards my location. (Why she was running, I don’t know. She seems to run often for no apparent reason.) At that time, she was about sixteen, and I was only about eleven. My sister, Kathryn, was (and still is) the skinniest American you will ever meet. There are starving children in Africa who fatter than her, and although she is four and a half years older than me, I am probably twice as responsible as her — except for that day.
    “What are you doing?” she asked me. I had been staying away from her because she had a knack for, well, being an older sister. One second she would be fine, the next she would be a female Donald Trump; however, I wasn’t about to say that to her face.
    “Just clearing,” I replied back, not paying her much attention.
    “Hey!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t that the rope we used to swing on when we were kids?”
    I turned around and saw what she was talking about. There it was- a thin rope dangling from an an overhanging tree branch. A little to the right of the hanging rope, the remnants of the bent tree we used to jump off to swing on the rope stretched out parallel to the ground at an odd angle. The bent tree had mostly rotted, but the base remarkably still had bark on it and protruded about a foot and a half up from the ground. It was a couple inches thick and perfect for little kids with light bodies to use for starting their swing.
    In my eyes the large remnant of that tree was just another piece of wood for me to clear. Because I thought this rotted tree was in my way of a clean forest, I strutted over and gave it a kick.
    “Hey!” my sister exclaimed. “Don’t do that.”
    “Why? Are you worried I’ll hurt its feelings?” I said sarcastically.
    “No, you will get bad karma.”
    One- karma isn’t real. Two- even if karma were real, trees are senseless objects with no feelings whatsoever, and karma wouldn’t apply. Three- the tree was dead. I couldn’t catch karma from hurting something dead, right?
    “Riiiight,” I mumbled as I delivered another kick.
    “Stop!” she protested.
    “Fine,” I spat.
    I dropped the machete and then moved to the rope hanging about six feet away. I gave the rope a tug. I jumped on.
    At first all was good. I hung there for a second and thought, “Wow, I’m surprised this holds me.” That was until I felt the rope give way.
    The next thing that ran through my head was a word that my mother would not approve of, as I plummeted to the ground with a hard thud. At first, I thought the rope had broken- that was until I looked up to see the branch tumbling right on top of my head with a large crack. I sprawled on the ground with a throbbing headache that can only be described as- well, as if a tree branch fell on your head.
    Being the eleven year old baby I was, I went crying back to my grandparents, and we then left immediately.
    My sister, who spent the first fifteen minutes following the accident laughing her head off, hasn’t let me forget that day, and something tells me she never will. You see, she says that because I “injured” an important part of our childhood, karma dropped that tree branch right down on my head. Although it may seem that way, I just believe that that tree branch falling on me was impeccably timed.
    So there you have it - the time the tree branch fell on my head. The only time in my life where something has implied that “karma” might be real. If I can help it, there will never be another time that suggests this mysterious force gives us what we deserve because then my sister would be right and I would be wrong. And I don’t like it when I’m wrong.

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