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I was nine years old the first time I saw the woman.
     She was old, her hair a wispy grayish white that floated loosely about her head. She wore a plain yellow dress that must have had some tinting beneath it, because it seemed to change colors when I wasn’t looking, though was always normal when I turned to look. Her legs were barely visible beneath the long dress, and what you could see was covered in soft-looking veins, but she stood like her legs were beautiful. The dress was such a bright color that it distracted from the brilliant blue of her eyes.
     I was on my way to go visit my friend Jamie, but the woman was such an oddity that I stopped to stare. A huge oak tree arched above her, and she sat plumb on the roots, dress and all, like Mama always told me not to do.
     She caught me looking at her and smiled. She beckoned with a finger, and my overpowering curiosity blotted out my hard-taught misgivings about strangers, drawing me forward.
     “Come, child,” She said, her voice surprisingly young, and every word careful, like she wasn’t used to her voice yet. “Look into the knot on the tree, and it will tell you a story.”
     Always eager to hear a new story, and too enthusiastic to question how a knot in the wood could speak, I stepped right up onto the roots of the tree and peered eagerly into the knot.
     I stared hard into the knot, waiting for the story. I saw swirling patterns in the wood, knotting and convoluted and going all directions at once. Yet there was still a sort of pattern; a simple one, often changing lengths and textures and even colors, but holding to the gentle waves and whorls. It grew rapidly from the center, but quickly lost speed, the swirls getting broader and holding better to the pattern, but still changing and growing all the time.
     I pulled back, confused. “What kind of story was that?”
     The woman grinned. “The truest kind of story- the only kind worth telling.”
     I looked at her, hard, trying to figure out if she was mocking me, but she turned away, staring into the knot. I got the sense she was trying to see what I saw.
     Tears filled my eyes. I was sure she was mocking me. I turned and ran away.
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     I was eighteen years old the second time I saw the woman.
     She had her hair loosely tied into a ponytail, which was odd, because I remembered her hair being thinner. Her clothes didn’t suit her at all, a tight black tank-top, a black leather miniskirt, and torn fishnets. The clothes showed off a shape that seemed out of place, and was at odds with the shape of her face. It showed off skin that seemed worn and wrinkled, like it was too tired to put up an effort. Her brilliant eyes watched me suspiciously before the same slightly wild grin as last time graced her face.
     “Come, child,” She said, her voice a little hoarse and dripping with sardonic pleasure, “Look into the knot on the tree-”
     “And it will tell me a story.” I said scornfully, flicking my hair behind my shoulder. “I remember.”
     She glared at me. “No. This time, it will tell you the future.”
     I gave her a wary look, sure she was making fun of me again, wanting to just get to my concert, but too curious to simply turn away.
     She gave me a look I can only describe as a challenge. With a sigh, I carefully stepped onto the roots and looked blankly into the knot, not sure what I expected to see.
     I saw a gentle line cut through the patterns. I first saw it at a dip, but it quickly rose again and ventured boldly across, sometimes moving with the patterns, sometimes against it, and sometimes doing both in a way that made no sense at all but looked perfectly right. Occasionally, it started meandering about, as if it didn’t know where to go, but it always moved forward, not stopping for anything.
     I pulled back from the knot, giving the woman an appraising look. She gave me an “I told you so” sort of look, and her lips were half-cocked in a smile.
     “And what,” I asked, echoing my childish question from half a life ago. “Kind of future is that?”
     She grinned. “The truest kind of future- the kind that can change.”
     I stared at her, but she looked into the knot herself, desperate to see what she knew had to be there.
     Disgusting at myself but wary of the woman, I walked away with my back straight. And if my eyes glistened with something like relief, no one saw.
*      ~      *      ~      *
     I was forty years old the third time I saw the woman.
     Her hair was now tightly bound into a bun, but it wasn’t perfect- wisps of hair had escaped the tie, and floated loosely about her face. Her clothes were sensible and professional, a black suit-and-skirt combination with the jacket buttoned. Pantyhose hid her legs. But her shoes were a bright blue, like a more restrained shade of the color of her eyes, and the lace on her black undershirt matched her eyes exactly. She watched me calmly, a tiny smile on her face that couldn’t help but be a little wild.
     “Come, child,” She said calmly, even though I’d ceased to be a child long ago and, in fact, had children of my own. “Look into the knot on the tree, and it will tell you the past.”
     I considered asking why the tree showed something different every time, but I had the faintest feeling that it never changed- that it was me that changed what I saw. I boldly stepped onto the tree’s huge roots and gazed into the knot.
     I saw shifting shadows of light and dark playing over a ring in the pattern. It began with a gentle rise and fall, a tiny hill. As it ran its circle, it changed constantly, sometimes jagged and uneven, sometimes so straight you’d think it was drawn with a ruler. It stopped a bit before it reached the beginning, but not suddenly- it seemed instead to imply that it would keep going, and finally complete its rotation.
     I sighed heavily, stepping back. She smiled at me.
     “And what,” I asked. “Kind of past is that?
     She smiled. “The truest kind of past- the kind that shapes us.”
     I met her eyes, and, for the first time, I smiled a little. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected a straight answer.”
     She gave me a quick look that said something like “It’s as straight as you make it,” and looked into the knot herself, a nostalgic smile on her face. I stepped carefully off of the roots and walked away, disappointed, and not knowing I’d been hoping for anything in the first place.
}{      ~      }{      ~      }{
     I was eighty years old the fourth time I found the woman.
     Her hair was loose and straight, hanging around her shoulders and curling at the ends. She wore a dark blue shirt that flowed over her upper shoulders and left her biceps bare; sparkles dusted the shirt all over. Her tight black pants looked comfortable, and her blue platform heels made her legs look long and shaped. The colors emphasized the brilliant blue of her eyes, making them shine to the point that they were too riveting to look away from. She had a contented smile on her face, one that I matched when she caught sight of me.
     “Come, child,” She said, her voice confident and self-assured, and I smiled at the familiar greeting, “Look into the knot on the tree, and it will show you what is.”
     I stepped carefully onto the roots and looked.
     I saw it all- I saw the swirling patterns, the bright, sharp line, and the incomplete ring- a little closer to complete now. And for the first time, I saw the entire thing as a whole. Looking in, I saw swirls and lines like the pattern was dancing. There were shadows a little further in, some that obscured, and some that hid completely, but they did little but emphasize the brightness. And beyond even the shadows was a little center that seemed to draw in the lights around it and hold them in, practically glowing with a brilliance that I knew at once existed nowhere else.
     I turned to the woman. “And this is what is?”
     She smiled. “This is what is.”
     I never needed to search again.