When the Sapling child was first born, her mother would climb the grassy hill that is my home and nurse the small bundle underneath my limbs. Singing with my feathered tenants, beautiful lull-a-byes, she rocked her baby in gentle rhythm with the Spring breezes. Back then, the Sapling was just another egg with its doting mother. She would become more.

When the heat of Summer seeped into the air, her mother would take the Sapling strolling in her carriage, ducking under the shade of my leaves when they’d return. There was always music with the two of them, and their gentle swaying in the breeze.

By the midst of Autumn, it was evident that the Sapling was no egg at all, in fact she was a beautiful, cooing miniature of her mother and she was delighted by the bright gold and orange of my leaves. Sitting at the base of my trunk, she’d squeal and clap happily as I showered leaves all around her.

It wasn’t long before she began to move uprightly as her mother did, though not as steadily so. My trunk became a hiding place and she delighted when her mother would chase her around it or pretend not to know she had hidden there.

After the first snow, the air was too cold and her nose would turn rosey after only a short time outside. I saw less of her then. More present were the squirrels hibernating in my boughs.

It was a very lonely Winter.

For the Sapling, I would have been chopped down as a Christmas Fir, just to spend the season indoors with her.

When Spring arrived, a great celebration was held in honor of the Sapling’s first year. Friends and feasting, family and singing, and me at the very center!

But, this was also the day I made her cry.

She had been given a shiny red balloon attached to string, it burst on my lowest limb when it slipped from her tiny grasp.

For the Sapling, I would have been made of feathers, to stop even one tear from crossing her tiny blushed cheeks.

As seasons changed and time spun forward, the Sapling grew in stature and by her fifth Spring, she could reach the small hollow in the center of my trunk. She was delighted to hide her treasures there. I became the guardian of a small rag doll, three buttons and a shiny tin coin.

Her mother would join her at my base, on a blanket spread with nourishment for the two, but more so, the Sapling came alone. It was she that sang beneath my limbs now and watched the birds as they hopped inside their leafy dwelling.

On the celebration of her sixth Spring, there was, as always a celebration at the base of my trunk, but mostly there was the swing. Her father hung it there as a gift. A roped plank, suspended high within my branches.

If we had been daily friends before, we spent twice the time together now. The rope bound us closer still. It was as delightful for me to see her glide over the edge of the hill in glee as it was a thrill for her to soar. She began then to sing of flying, of this I will never forget.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I cannot die quickly of my own accord, but oh, how I wish I could! I have refused to stretch my roots any further to drink during this, her sixth Autumn. Eventually I will die, but it may be many seasons from now before I am as numb and hollow as I long to be.

They have dug a small hole beside me, to plant my Sapling in.

Her cheeks are no longer the pink of new blossoms; she is now like a grayed tree in Winter.

Curse that swing, her glee and mine!

For the Sapling, I would that my branches had been cut off, that I’d never helped her fly.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

There are only sad sounds now, the mournful voice of her mother, the mocking of the birds.

Only I know she and I have become one, deep within earth, together in our dying. I have wrapped my famished roots around the small box, holding her tightly now, as I wish I had before.

Her mother sits beneath my limbs and I weep along with her, a deep purple shower of leaves; this blanket against the cold is the only solace I can give.

My own dying has finally begun. This is the last time life will leave my limbs, and I am throwing it to the ground in wild, purple abandon.
There will be no blossoms this Spring, just as there will be no celebration of the Sapling’s seventh season.

I will never bloom again.

After three hundred winters, three hundred summers, three hundred glorious springtimes, and three hundred somber autumns, I thought I knew everything there was to know, but I learned something new this past year: something hard and terrible, like a long drought, yet soft and warm as a spring rain.

I stand alone in my fold of the hills, as I have always done. Every spring lush green grasses and wondrous wildflowers leap skyward in a frenetic burst of life, only to wither and die moments later under the searing summer sun. I am solitary and I am at peace with my world. Or rather, I was.

Humans have always been part of my life. As a sapling they would drive down a muddy trail behind their great beasts, appearing over the crest of one hill and disappearing behind the other. As I matured, they sometimes stopped to rest beneath my shade. They were quick and infrequent and I could never tell one from another.

Humans are all sudden, frantic action, yet it was a human who changed my world, and did it in the way of the trees: imperceptibly, day by day, until a great new thing had come into being.

My leaves basked in the early summer warmth the first time the woman walked over the hill. No path existed in the field to guide her steps, yet she came to me unswervingly. She walked under my canopy, pulled out a yellow strand and fixed it to one of my lower branch, then sat at my feet and leaned against my trunk.

She made a soft humming sound, like a zephyr dancing in my branches. I had never seen a human remain still as long as she. After a measureless moment she got up and retraced her steps back over the hill.

I thought little of this, believing it to be simply another incomprehensible human act. She returned the following day, yellow strand in hand, and the next day, and the next, until my boughs were ablaze with color.

Some days she would tie the ribbon and leave. Other times she would bring food and drink and sit for hours. I began to watch for her coming, and felt something stir within me when her head would peek over the hill. She soon wore a trail through the grass.

In late summer there came a day when the woman did not appear. I puzzled over this. I puzzled, too, over the odd feeling her absence awoke within me. I remained whole, yet an empty sensation nibbled at my core.

I felt a great surge of joy when she reappeared in mid-autumn, but she was not alone. She carried a tiny child against her breast as she strode through the glade. The void inside me was filled and I once more knew peace.

Her visits grew ever longer. She would place the baby upon a blanket at my feet and hum and coo and babble. And every day, a new yellow ribbon appeared.

The last time I saw the woman was on a dark, cold day on the edge of winter. My leaves had long since fled before the wind. This day a gale whipped and howled through my canopy. The birds of a warmer time were nowhere to be seen.

She was alone; the child was not with her. She made a horrible sound I had never heard before. This was no gentle humming or playful coo, but a primal wail. Her whole frame shook as if from a great storm. She took out a cruel knife and slashed and flailed at the ribbons she had so painstakingly attached during the past year. Water poured from her eyes, like the flow of sap from a tremendous, gaping wound.

She did not stop until every ribbon was shorn from my branches; cut asunder to flee in tatters before the wind. The knife fell from her hands and she collapsed at my feet, her small body wracked with sobs, until at length she grew still.

She pulled herself erect. No trace remained of her long vigil, the foul winds having stolen it away. She looked up at my bare branches and then laid her hand upon my trunk. A moment later she turned and walked away.

It is spring now, and the grass is reclaiming the woman’s trail. I can barely make it out, though I search its length every day. I do not know what caused the woman such pain, but surely it must be a great evil. I want to rip it from the earth and throw it to the bare ground to watch it wither and die while the insects devour its roots.

No, I do not know what happened to the woman, but I do know what has happened to me. I am alone. For the first time in three hundred years, I am alone.

Winter

On a farm in North Carolina, a couple brought their infant son outside to their dirt driveway. The driveway ended in a loop, in the center of which was a small sapling, a young oak tree. They set the toddler down, all bundled up against the chill February air.

The matron, holding on to little Myron Miller, cooed softly to her child.

“See that, Myron? That's your tree, planted just for you. It'll grow up big and strong, just like you. No matter what happens, this tree will always be here, just for you.”

The youngster, burbling to himself, was playing with a small metal ring, his favorite toy in a time before people worried about choking hazards and such. As he explored the small trunk with his own tiny hands, the ring caught on a branch bud and hung there.

After a minute or two the father spoke up, a hint of impatience in his voice.

“All right, now, Louise; we'll all catch our death out here before too long.”

They scooped up the baby and trundled him back inside the small house.

Outside, the oak tree stood silent, the picture of limitless potential evident even now in its small stature.

Spring

Time passes. Myron, a strong young man now, lives alone in the old house, but the annual family reunions provide more than enough joy and life to last through the months. Many kids run about, but even though there are barns to explore and tractors to play on and a creek out back, the oak tree is the focus of attention.

The tree is already impressive in size, with a tire swing constantly occupied by two or three kids at a time. The tree itself is “home base” for the myriad games going on all at the same time, small, dirty hands almost always in contact with the rough bark. There is even a small child taking a nap, nestled between two of the larger roots radiating outward.

The adults gravitate to the great tree as well, thankful for the shade it gives them while they talk about dull, grown-up things.

The tree endures all with quiet dignity.

Summer

Time passes. Things are quieter nowadays, the reunions are fewer and farther apart, tractors and other pieces of machinery are fixed and repaired and replaced many times over, but the tree is a constant. As strong as it's ever been, it also is showing its age, much like its human companion. Gnarled fingers pick up gnarled branches, knocked loose by winds that previously had trouble sending leaves flying.

These two have been through a lot over the years. Drought, heavy rains, even a lightning strike left its mark on both tree and house. And when gale force winds damaged the civil-war era house, Myron pitched a tent with the mighty oak as an anchor. He propped up a small mattress against the massive trunk and it was as comfortable as his easy chair inside the house.

For several nights during this time he fell asleep to the sound of the wind soughing through the broad leaves above.

Autumn

Time passes. On a farm, practicality is greater than even compassion. There came a time when the massive branches of the oak were too much of a danger to those beneath it; some of the branches were a threat even to the small house. Even though the two had grown up together, the decision was make to cut the tree down.

Over the next two days, and without fanfare, Myron Miller and several friends and neighbors felled the once great tree and reduced it to firewood, each helper taking his share.

Slowed by time but still self-reliant, the old farmer moved and stacked the remaining wood near his house, in preparation for the coming winter.

***

One crisp October night, Myron brought in enough split wood to get him through the night. With the upstairs closed off in anticipation of the coming winter, the wood stove had no trouble keeping the bottom rooms toasty warm. He put a couple more pieces in the stove and plopped into his worn easy chair for a rest.

He closed his eyes and listened to the crickets outside chirping to one another, and to the soft pops of the burning wood in the stove. Sometime during the night, bathed in a cocoon of warmth given him by the fire of the old oak tree, Myron exhaled his last breath. He had the serene expression of contentedness on his face.

The house was still.

From within the stove came a faint clink of metal falling upon metal. The ring, given to the tree decades ago, finally was returned as the fire consumed the last of its body.

The tree had stood upon the brow of the hill for centuries. It had seen the house appear on the stream below constructed from the bodies of its brothers.

Birds with their nests came and went. More houses were built, and there were fewer trees. The creek that flowed by the bottom of the hill was covered over and the road ran in its place. More and more of the tree’s brothers fell to feed the growing town’s hunger.

One spring, heavy equipment clawed its way to the top of the hill, but people chained themselves to the tree. The humans stood in the shade of the tree and argued its fate. Finally the equipment turned and crawled away again. Over the summer the tracks grew green again. Through that summer the humans came to sit in the shade of the tree, but as fall approached they once again left it alone.

The next spring four boys came and built a nest in the tree. It cradled their motley creation of wood as carefully as the birds’ nests of twigs and grass. All summer the tree was the center of adventure and invasion. The boys expanded and reinforced their work. They climbed right up to the highest branches of the tree. They shouted and swung on ropes. In the fall they collected leaves. In the winter they threw themselves down the hill at reckless speeds.

Year after year boys and then girls built and clambered on the tree. As some grew too old and busy, others took their place. Lesser trees grew up around, but the tree reigned supreme in the children’s affection.

On a summer day many years after the first construction of the treehouse, six children played lethargically in the tree. The air was so hot and still that even breathing was almost too much work. The only thing that kept them in the tree was the knowledge that it was worse at the bottom of the hill. As they played cards and read their comics, the children didn’t notice the sky becoming dark and threatening. Only when the first gust of wind hit the tree, did they see the approaching storm.

Rain and hail struck as they moved to climb down and run home. With squeals of pain they ran back into their lair and battened down the hatches. They weren’t really worried, after all, the tree had survived hundreds of summer storms. Yet none of them had the fury of this storm, and now the tree stood tallest against the wind.

The gale blew uninterrupted across the cleared land and struck the tree with its full weight. Rain slashed at the leaves as hailstones punched through the thin cloth hung over windows. The children couldn’t hear themselves scream as they clung to branches. The wind whipped and tossed the tree. Branches broke and were torn away. Smaller trees fell unheard. Pieces of the treehouse blew away down the hill, until just the heart of the children’s nest was held tight by the tree’s heaviest branches.

The true battle was just beginning. The storm had bred funnel clouds, fingers of destruction that churned up dust and debris, sending it arrowing toward the tree. Straws buried themselves deep in the heartwood. Sand tore at leaves and bark. Yet the tree held the children safe at its center.

The first root that snapped sent a shock wave through the tree. The second and third went simultaneously and the tree began to lean. It clung to the soil with all the tenacity of its centuries, but the tree knew it was doomed. Doomed or not, it was not giving its precious burden to the storm. As more and more roots gave way and the tree leaned farther over the brink of the hill, the six children clung tighter than squirrels to the great branches at the heart of the tree. Cold and scared as they were, they hadn’t been touched by the true violence of the storm. Somehow, their tree continued to hold to the soil.

Darkness that had nothing to do with the black clouds began to gather in the tree until only the storm, the soil and its roots were real. Root after root broke free and the tree was hammered by the wind, yet it refused to fall. Finally, the storm dissipated. The sun returned. It was only now in the still air that the tree let go and gently lowered the children to the ground. They crawled out from the tangle of the wreck and ran screaming to their homes.

The children came back to the hole that was all that was left of their beloved tree. Each of them carefully planted a tree in the hole at the brow of the hill.

Sometimes, it can be hard …

to do the right thing …

or to not do the wrong thing …

It was as though there was something in my very nature that stopped me from behaving in the way I know I ought. Something that is so much part of me that I didn’t even realise that it was there until it showed itself. Something deep inside me that I had no control over. Something … I don’t have the words to explain … something … perhaps … primal. No … no, not primal, more … fundamental. Yes, fundamental, that’s it, fundamental to my very being, to the who and the what I am.

But at the same time, even knowing the thing is wrong, in some perverse way feelings of pride still stir over a job well done, an unpleasant duty performed with skill and ability, a challenge met and overcome.

And that is what I discovered about myself; something dark and uncaring, cruel, maybe even twisted that lurked at the very core of me and caused me to participate in an act of such … evil that I carry the scars to this very day.

An act that I cannot easily bring myself to discuss. An act of which I am deeply ashamed, but of which at the same time I am strangely satisfied that I did not falter in its execution.

But still, an act I would rather I could forget … ah, that I could forget …

Oh, I know it would be easy to say it is in my past, that times were different then, and attitudes were different, but somehow I just cannot …

For I know what I did was wrong.

Even then, it was wrong.

But I could not prevent myself from going through with it. Even as I shuddered from the anguish I was part of, as I continued with my part in the event, I did not break away and perhaps bring to a stop that which happened.

Oh, yes, I bear the scars still, for those who know where to look. They are not all on the inside, either, but I have hidden the visible ones away from casual eyes. I have held them close to my self, screening them from the uncaring and the intolerant who would find a meaning to those scars that glories in the thoughts behind the actions rather than the inhumanity that caused them.

But there I stood, fully comprehending what was going to happen even from the very first moment, from the instant the first automobile pulled to a halt in the dark, and the first careworn and dusty boot struck the ground beside it.

And I could not leave; I was still there at the end, after my world had changed …

I heard the boots pounding on the beaten path, crashing the door in, thudding into the house.

I heard the screams of those inside, and their pleading and weeping, and the shouts of the booted intruders.

And I heard the silence and the dignity and the courage of the one chosen as he was dragged beside me. I heard the abuse and the insults and the rage and the fear of his assailants, as they goaded each other on. I heard the brief debate and the judgements called.

I heard the swish and coil of the rope; I felt its gentle caress.

And as the weight came on, I stood steadfast and strong, taking the strain on my branch effortlessly. The caress became a jerking a cutting and pulling and shaking that tried to bend and break me.

And I could have allowed that to happen; oh yes, I could have simply given way, could have dropped the rope to the ground. But I didn’t. To my eternal shame and disgust, I didn’t. I bore the strain; I absorbed the twitches and struggles that the rope transmitted to me, I accepted the burning cuts to my bark that it inflicted, and I bore the strain until the twitching stopped and stilled afterwards.

As the sun rose in the morning, to weeping and wailing as the rope was cut away and the dead weight came off my branch, I knew these wounds of mine would never heal, would forever remind me that a tree can also play a role in the affairs of men. A role that can be for better or for worse.

A role perhaps altered by the breaking of a single branch.

I didn’t bend, or break; I performed a harsh and unpleasant duty; and somewhere deep inside I’m proud of that.

But at the same time I keep my scars and they remind me.

Sometimes it can be harder …

to not do the wrong thing …

Encased in darkness beneath the soil, a seed shivers and its outer skin cracks. It is a small crack, spreading from one end to the other, but the gap is substantial enough to allow a single thought to escape.

The thought permeates the soil, and the moist globules prompt it to expand. It is a relationship older than time and just as mysterious.

Slowly, fingers extend from the cracked shell to grasp at the surrounding earth, to feel and explore, to gain insight. It communicates the information to the body still curled up inside. The soil is willing; it has patiently nourished and cared for the seed. It doesn’t rush the process.

In time the body realizes its journey must expand into the light. Part of it will remain bound to the wet soil, as this was its womb, and will always be its anchoring point.

It stretches and bursts from the seed, moving and pushing through the dense earth. This is not a struggle, but an integral part of gaining strength needed for later.

As the journey progresses two very opposite things happen. One is the foundation binding this newborn to the earth. The roots seek out the depths and darkness of their birth. The other is the body expanding upwards, seeking the light. It must live in both worlds, this tree whose head now pokes out of the soil for the very first time.

Many challenges lie ahead. Its life right now is small and weak. But given the chance it could grow tall and strong. It might even bypass the hand of man cutting it down in its prime.

With entrance into light the tree grows. Time glides by. It triumphs against lashing winds and rains. It survives the hot summer months and the plague of burrowing and leaf-eating insects. Each winter it sheds all leaves and stands dormant in the cold. This is the life of a tree.

Then one day, life changes. It brings the tree a young man.

In the beginning the relationship is questionable, for he carries a cold, metal blade and carves a minor wound into her bark. Sometimes he kicks her furiously, shouting and ripping leaves from her branches. This causes her no pain.

Then the attacks stop. Now, he comes just to sit beneath her, or lovingly run his hands over the scar left behind by his blade. When he does this something stirs in her roots with a force all its own.

One day he climbs into her branches and sleeps there. She hugs him, so aware of his presence, the warmth radiating from his body. An embrace as impossible and unlikely as it could be, but real beyond any doubt.

When he wakes the young man stays awhile, gently rolling a leaf between his fingers without pulling it from the branch. She sways her smaller branches, brushing her young leaves against his smooth, soft skin. He sings a song about his love for her. When a single tear falls from his face and melts into her bark, she suddenly knows love too.

The visits continue. She blossoms and proudly drops petals from her scented flowers down upon him. He presses them to his face and inhales her very essence. They have a quiet and intimate summer together, him singing of his love for her, and she sheltering him from the sun. Autumn brings fewer, but longer visits. He takes her most colourful, fallen leaves away with him.

Winter brings him even less, but he still comes by every so often to fondle her barren branches and remind her of his love. His touch bears warmth.

How she aches for spring. How long the winter seems.

When spring arrives he returns. But does not come alone. There is another with him, one whose scent rivals those of her budding blossoms. A young woman who thoughtfully touches the scar carved into her bark, then turns to fold herself around the young man. She is crying, and the young man sings a familiar song into the woman’s ear. When he turns and pulls a handful of blossoms out and proffers them to young woman, the tree truly feels pain.

Then suddenly, they are gone. Many seasons pass. The young man does not come back. Each summer her branches become less fruitful, though she has yet to reach her prime. Her will to keep reaching for the light has faded. The scar grows nearly invisible.

Then one day her roots loosen their hold in the earth and her body topples down. It meets the soil from whence it came, and to where it will now return. How she has waited for this day to arrive. That is the death of a tree. A tree that came to love a man.

The last struggle has begun. The papery thin leaf desperately clings and shudders; I watch it with anticipation. I sigh with impatience--it's almost my time. Staring harder at the leaf, I encourage the wind to rip it from my thickest branch. The cold biting air obeys my command and emits a powerful gust. My final leaf finally begins its spiral down toward the earth. I'm free at last. The leaves have left me to my winter.

Winter. A word, a season, full of sad beauty and desolation. I notice that humans view winter as a time of coldness, death, and darkness. They dream of warm places and vibrant sunshine. Animals and those humans alike fly south for the winter and I'm glad to see them depart. For three seasons, I'm the giver, a mother, to the world . I give shade, shelter, and food.

Spring. During that prosperous season, I house the singing birds and manic squirrels; I secretly hate them- trees enjoy peace and quiet too. I idly stand by as creatures romance their mates under my glorious, blooming branches. Yet, I, I dream of my one true love who visits for only three months out of the year.

Summer, wretched summer. As I suffocate and bake in the heat, families bask in my shade; my branches burn and my leaves wilt. Children scramble up my trunk, ripping my bark and smearing my sap. While they play lookout, I thunder with impatience; they feel like little fleas that I can't scratch off. There is never enough water; little flowers and weeds steal the moisture from the earth before it sinks to my roots. Despite all that, I do my duty.

Fall. When summer turns to fall, I begin to lose patience. I feel winter approaching and the leaves don't melt off fast enough. People come to marvel at my brilliant colors, but I want to scream, "Tear them off! Leave my branches bare- I want my time!"

Winter. I can't get enough of that word. It's finally here. When winter comes, the humans and animals just pass me by. They regard my bare branches as stark, plain, and ugly, but I feel truly beautiful. The chilling wind massages my core and reminds me that I'm alive. I indulge in the faint light, feeling the slightest warmth tickle my bark. It's all for me.

Pure bliss comes but once a year with the first snowfall; I look regal draped in my luminescent cloak. When the snow melts and freezes over my every branch and curve, I shiver with delight. I feel like a beacon to the gods, standing proud and tall. My roots reach deeper into the hard soil, getting stronger as they fight the tough dirt. Exuberance. My branches stretch towards the clear winter sky in victory. I enjoy my time.

Taking one last glance at the delicate leaves adorning the ground, I smile. It's Winter.

I have stood here for centuries; my roots are an integral part of the earth. Through layers of soil, rock, and teeming earth they are anchored. Strong and binding, they bend and coil like powerful snakes as they press onward through the ground-- reaching for the power center. The distant heat of the earth's core fills me with life and wisdom, and I have the constant urge to always dig deeper and reach higher. The potency of Mother Earth's magic inspires me to be stronger than stone, more graceful than water, and constant as the wind. Through fire, sleet, blasting snow, and blistering heat I have endured. I stand proud, tall and magnificent; I should be worshiped and revered, but. . . I have been reduced to this. . .

"It's peeing on me again!" I cry with frustration. 'That mangy mutt needs to learn some BLADDER CONTROL!" My tone becomes harsher and louder as I see the little abomination gearing up for a second round.

In a desperate attempt to prevent the warm amber liquid from soiling my roots, an intervention has become necessary, "Hello! Excuse me!," I shout to an idiotic orange looking woman, "Will you call your dog off of me?" After a painful thirty seconds of me trying to yell at the woman and stare down her hell-beast, I finally hit my breaking point.

"Why can't you hear me? Is the incessant smacking of your gum or your vacant whiny tone so loud that you can drown out the deep rumbling of an ancient being?" Following that rhetorical question, I let loose a string of obscenities that are highly inappropriate for someone of my elevated status. Brewing in anger, I continue my muttering as I feel the onslaught of unwelcome liquid hit my bark.

In my rage, I barely hear the slight clearing of a throat followed by, "Uh, dude, you're a tree..."

I look down to see the shady looking Cannabis Sativa plant that had mysteriously sprung up a few days ago. "Thank you for illuminating the obvious," I retort.

"Let me clarify," the little plant says in a raspy sort of drawl, "She can't hear you. . . because you're a tree..."

Suddenly I feel stupid. Of course she couldn't hear me because I'm a tree. "I knew that," I respond stiffly, "I just got so caught up in my rage that I let that little fact slip." The plant and I watch the horrid couple depart, "I hate that dog; I swear, I can see it smirking at me from 50ft away."

"Hey, just calm down man. Look on the bright side; it's summer, it's hot, and now you're getting watered on a daily basis."

"Right. 80 years from now, if some scientists crack me open to view my many rings, they'll think I acquired some terrible disease when I hit 110. Yellow rings?! That is insulting!" I cry with righteous outrage, "Why can't the little pea-brain ever relieve himself on you?" I demand of the plant.

"The cats get to me first," was his stoic reply.

With my anger slowing simmering down to a light burning sensation, I engage the Cannabis Sativa plant in a conversation. His laid-back attitude eventually calms me down, and I feel some creative juices start to flow through my sap. A plan begins to form in my mind about how to rid myself of that leaky nuisance. I can either take out the girl or the dog; I just have to figure out which one would be the easier target. I can feel a sinister smile stretch through my core as my leaves begin to quiver with anticipation.

Tomorrow...the foliage fights back.

You first captured my attention when I was a boy barely big enough to wield the axe I carried. I remember feeling guilt as my blade dug into your flesh. The moaning of the blistering winter wind through the boughs of your bretheren chilled my bones more than the sub-zero temperatures, but I had to do it, we were at bad times and couldn't purchase a pre-cut cousin.

You see, everyone in my family had all but given up on Christmas, what with only two days to go until a child's favorite holiday. I was determined, so your sacrifice was out of necessity, not malice.

My tearful mother helped me decorate your limbs with strands of popcorn and bejewel your branches with white lights, some of which even worked. Never mind the fact that you could've been cast for a role in a famous "Peanuts" cartoon, or that we had very little to pile at your feet, I was proud, because Christmas would not have been if you weren't cut.

After the season ended, we couldn't bear to see you go, so dad helped dig a hole in the front yard, not to bury you, but to give you a second chance at life. I feared that you weren't going to make it as most of your needles turned brown. However, when spring dawned and the warm southern sun lit your crown, you were revived. Drinking in the April rain, you grew almost as fast as me.

In the following years we grew together. I giggled as my beloved boxer, my best friend, watered your trunk. I used your cooling shadow to escape the summer sun, and watched with pride as you retained your color throughout the Autumns, while the other trees in the yard became skeletal.

You kept me hidden from punishment more than once, your concealing branches hiding my shameless face when the neighbors came up missing their freshly plucked apples. Quite a few cores did you well I think, enriching your soil, while at the same time drawing the hated yellow jackets that somehow always managed to get inside my shorts before I felt them. I reckon then, if you could giggle, you would have.

As my carefree days of youth waned into teenage angst, you were there to hide the cigarette butts pilfered from dad, I'm not sure I can thank you for that, though. You witnessed my countless mistakes and the boyish violence between two brothers, only you knowing whom was really to blame. Many years forward, you watched the same two brothers embrace for the first time in true appreciation of one another.

When our shared driveway became a lane, you were my sheild from the stones thrown by the kids from down the street. You helped me get vengeance, when I finally returned fire with a rock deflected by your steadfast branches. My backside was sore for days after I was punished for that, but it was worth while to see a bully's growl turn into a whimper when I split his brow from eye to eye.

The day my best friend died, you understood as my anguish was reflected on you. Blood from my knuckles mingled with the sap from your trunk, the second of three times I broke your knarled skin. Ten or so years worth of tears I cried with my face buried in your branches must've provided you with half of your nourishment. I think I owed you that much, at least.

Then came that final spring. A bolt of lightning rended you into halves. I felt like a piece of myself died that day, and stood before you and wept like a child again. The flood of memories that washed through my head was overwhelming. As I sat on my knees, soaked to the bone, I knew there was only one proper thing to do.

A much stronger boy almost grown, hefted the very same axe that stole you from your home. Your limbs became sticks and your trunk logs. With sorrow I piled you high between the two dogwoods out back, where you lied in state until the following winter. As November faded to Christmas once again, your sweet pine scent filled the house one last time, providing warmth and a melancholy glow that touched all of our hearts.

Ceremoniously I scooped your remains from the hearth with a prayer, then carried you back to the spot you were taken from so many years ago. A single tear dropped into the ash, and the branches around me began creaking with the wind.

As I look up and smile, I say aloud, "thank you my friends. Your sacrifice helped this boy become a man. I can only hope to one day stand as tall and true. Thank you."

Jim Philips received a phone call from the State Parks and Recreation Department to erect a statue of a dignitary who was visiting tomorrow. The statue was already delivered, and sitting on the loading dock.

He called his administrative assistant on the intercom.

“Have the loading dock uncrate the statue please, and request ground maintenance to place it on co-ordinate A-17 of the park”

“Yes sir. The form 42586/C for requisitioning personnel to uncrate and dispose of packaging went out this morning. The 9704/D/7 requisition for ground maintenance services is ready, I only needed the co-ordinate for the statue placement. I will send it with the next interoffice run.” Alice said.

“Can’t you just walk it down?” Jim asked.

He heard a strained silence.

“Did you really want to risk a union action from the Interoffice Delivery Union for movement of correspondence outside of contract stipulations?” she asked.

She was right he shrugged. Anyway, he had all day to finish the task. Why rush things? He went back to reading the latest lottery tip sheets.

—--

Joe and Tony arrived at the loading dock, 9704/D/7 in hand.

“You have a statue for us?” Joe asked one of the workers.

He pointed over his shoulder without looking up from his newspaper. Joe shrugged, and he and Tony moved the statue into the cart.

He drove them to grid location A-17.

“Problems boss,” Tony said.

“What problem? We stick the statue where they told us, and leave.” Joe replied.

“What about the tree?”, Tony asked.

“There is no tree on this map”, Joe pointed out.

“That tree right there.” Tony said pointing.

Joe looked up. Sure enough there was a big old tree right on A-17 where they were supposed to place the statue. Joe swore, and called Jim on the cell phone.

“You ordered a statue moved today?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jim. “Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, there is a tree there”, Joe said.

“Are you sure about that?”, Jim said.

“Look buddy, I can read a map, and I know a tree when I see one. If you don’t believe me, come look for yourself”.

Jim arrived at the work site a short while later.

“That is a tree,” he said unnecessarily.

“Do tell, Einstein.” Joe replied.

“Chop it down.” Jim suggested.

Joe looked at him sternly. “The Landcape Artists and Tree Pruners may not be too happy with that.”

Jim dialed up Alice.

“Yes sir, the 89204/T, removal of vegetable matter has already been sent. I got wind of the problem from your phone call”.

Jim wasn’t too happy with Alice listening in, it could have been a private call, but time was going to run short on this one.

The LATP union workers arrived.

“It says here we are supposed to chop a tree down. I need a director’s signature.” one said.

Jim signed.

The worker checked his map. “There ain’t no tree here”.

“The tree is right in front of you.” Jim replied.

George the tree removal technician viewed his map again, then looked at the tree. “Yeah, it is there alright, but it is not on the map. I can’t touch it until the map is fixed.”

Jim called Alice again.

“All set Jim, the form 563821/J, correction of survey request has already been filled out and sent”, Alice said on hearing the problem.

Jim was going to have to give that girl a raise, seniority or not.

The surveyors arrived, looked at the map, then the tree. “That is not supposed to be here.” one said. “Who authorized it?”

“I haven’t the foggiest.” Jim said. “It is clearly here though. Please update the map.”

“I have to have a reason for the correction”, the man said.

“The reason is you missed this tree on your survey.” Jim said.

“Listen pencil-neck. I do NOT miss anything on my surveys. Now how did it get here?”

“How long ago was the survey taken?’, George asked.

The man checked the map. “45 years ago”.

“The tree probably just grew then”, George pointed out. “It is a natural phenomena. ”

The surveyor still looked miffed, but corrected the map. “Sign here,” he said.

Jim signed.

“OK George, we are running out of time here. Would you please cut it down now?”

“Sure thing boss,” George said.

“Wait a minute George. There is a ruby throated thrush nesting in that tree. It is a protected species isn’t it?”

George looked up. “Yep. Sorry boss, we can’t touch it without an override form”.

With that, everybody left with Jim standing there. 3:30 you know, they needed time to get changed to leave for home.

Jim found a bucket one of the workers had left behind, stood on it, then looped his tie over a branch.

“Just a minute Mack”, a voice said behind him. Have you filled out a 666978/R for that?