The Song of a Tree

There were many signs to tell that a person was lonely. I was far from recognising them all, but I knew with a great amount of certainty that talking to a tree was one of them. Such a peculiarity, it was.

I had been rooted to this patch of earth for nearly a hundred years and there had never been a single human being that lingered in this spot, let alone parted their lips far enough to utter a few words. You can imagine how surprised I was when a boy no older than seven ventured into the edges of this forest, sat down at my feet, and began talking.

"They don't understand me," he mumbled. "They think I'm just a petty little kid with petty problems. Why are adults so mean?"

When he paused and looked up, I realised he was talking to me.

The boy continued his rant. Enraptured, I kept listening to him talk. His words were interesting. School. Bike. Bedtime, snack time, playtime. I had no idea what these things were, but I listened all the same.

I was not aware of how much time had passed, but we sat there until sunset, the boy and I, having a one-sided conversation. Of course, trees were not made to speak to people, because people never spoke to trees. A tree found it difficult to know what to do when faced with a circumstance such as this. Nonetheless, I sat, watched, and listened. And I learned.

The next day, he came back to keep me company. It was a miracle that I could tell one day from the next. I had, in fact, lost all awareness of time long ago, having lived on and on for eternity and never experienced the feel of death. The boy, however, brought it all rushing back to me.

He was a fascination. I enjoyed watching him grow and teach new words to me every day. Annoying. Sorry. Friend. Traitor. Love. Sympathy. Humans seemed to live very complicated lives.

The boy brought much mystery and wonder into my own life-so many adventures and discoveries. I admit I might have, at one point, even prided myself in knowing more about life than the average tree. This could not have been without my companion. My friend.

I was waiting for him one day, anticipating another exhilarating encounter. I felt so terribly excited that I didn't even mind the woodpeckers' ceaseless poking or the crows' squawking and fluttering all around me. I was imagining all the new things I would be learning. Would he tell me more about complex relationships with siblings? Playing hockey? Or the exasperation of chasing after a girl? There was so much to understand!

The time drew nearer and nearer, arrived, passed, and no one showed up. I was disappointed. Where was my friend? Had he left? Had he...died? No, I decided. He was probably just busy. He had told me once that school was harsh and teachers gave him an enormous pile of homework every once in a while. Perhaps he was working today. If that was the case, I could easily forgive.

When he didn't meet me again on the next day, I grew upset.

When he still didn't come back the day after that, I became worried. What kept him from spending time with me? Was he ill?

When he failed to show up after an entire week, I was angry. Why had he abandoned me? Did he not want me after all? Was I not important to him?

I waited for months, seasons. Winter came and went. Four times in total, I had counted. I was miserable. My leaves were almost permanently dried; my bark was wearing thin. Up to this point, I had not known emotions could affect physical health.

The time dragged on and on. He never once came to visit me. By this point, not even the crows would alight on my breaking branches; not a woodpecker was to be seen pecking at the sourness inside of me. I was a rotting tree.