I have been taking some writing classes since January, and am happy to share a piece I wrote at the conclusion of the first one in March. I hope you enjoy it!
Autumn
My family lowers me into a hole in the ground near the edge of the property line. They pack the still-warm dirt around me, stomping on the mound to tamp it down. Standing me up and tying ropes around my thin, light gray bark, they then tie the ropes to stakes in the ground to keep my head held high in the face of any future blizzards. The last step is to surround my base with warm, red-brown, earthy-smelling mulch. Today I am reborn; no longer a seedling, but a new sapling. Rosie, the littlest one in my family, is learning how to walk. She toddles around my spindly trunk (can I call it a trunk yet if it is small enough to fit inside her tiny grip?) and almost pulls me down with her when she sits down hard on her diapered bottom. I tilt to one side until Rosie's father rights me.
Winter
The sharp scratching of a Swiss Army knife on my scaly brown bark wakes me out of my wintery slumber. I do not feel pain the way humans do, but a knife is a knife all the same. Rose and a young man her age are whispering, their frozen breath puffs floating up into my bare branches. “Come on, Rose.” “I don’t know, Liam. My dad will kill me when he sees it.” He kisses her softly. I have seen kisses between fully grown humans before during my fifteen winters and growing seasons, but this one seems different somehow. Rose giggles as Liam whispers something that the winter winds won’t let me hear. Then they continue scratching shapes into my bark. The cold air rushes in to freeze my exposed inner bark, but I am nearly grown; my heartwood is safe.
Spring
“When I was little, I named this tree ‘Hannah’ after a kindergarten classmate,” Rose says to Liam as they walk the hill I crown with samaras, those propeller seeds that Rose's mother dutifully rakes up to keep them from sprouting all over the property each autumn. Something sparkles on Rose's left hand; it scatters the light in all directions, casting rainbows onto my budding green leaves. I remember when Rose called me Hannah. She used to hide acorns under my exposed roots, not knowing that the oak’s seeds would not feed me as she intended. Her kindness moves me even now, and when the early spring wind blusters its way through my thick branches, I take care not to shed any stray small ones near her.
Summer
My family decorates me with white fabric that hangs from my lowest branches to form a peaked arch. On a sunny, warm day, they set up chairs in rows, all facing me. Liam and Rose's father share a glass of whisky that night under my branches, speaking of logistics and sports teams, but communicating their love for Rose. The next afternoon, Rose declares her love for Liam and he his love for her, their heads shaded from the sun under my rich green branches and their feet dodging my knobby surface roots as they run towards the tent after they are done with the rings. Rose can’t see them, but my underground roots stretch all the way to the tent, supporting the earth underneath the wedding tent. I can see her laughter floating all the way to my trunk as her father tells stories about her childhood days. I can hear the songs she belts out with her guests that I have heard her hum by herself before. I can feel the thrumming of a hundred feet dancing so energetically they actually shake some of my roots. But I don’t worry about that. I can hold them, energetic dancing and all; for I am fully grown.
Autumn II
I am preparing for my long slumber when a little one runs under my branches waving one of my discarded branches wildly. He brakes himself against my trunk, looking into my crown of crimson leaves as if searching for a lost toy. A skittering feeling in the biggest knothole of my trunk gives it away; he has been chasing one of the gray squirrels who lives in me. He yells in frustration when he realizes that he cannot climb me as he would be able to if I were a nearby fir tree. We sugar maples keep even our lowest branches lifted high above such little hands. Rose walks out of her childhood home, her belly swollen like my knothole was before it hollowed out a few winters back. “Jackaroo, come inside! Grandpa wants to show you something.” The little one yells back, “But the squirrel is not coming in and I want to show it to Grandpa!” Rose sighs and walks out to the little one. “Come on, buddy. The squirrel is safe in this tree. It doesn’t want to come in.” The little one eventually relents, and they walk back into the house together.
Winter II
It is a bad winter, possibly the worst one I have lived through. Vicious wind assaults me every night, and the temperature is cold enough to slow my sap to a crawl. I sleep restlessly through it. Only once do I see Rose, on one of the few bright days. She brings Jack and her other two children to sled at their grandparents’ house. They race each other to see who can be the first to touch my frozen bark after their slippery ascent back up the hill, then slide back down on their red and blue plastic toboggans. “Mom, I need to go charge my phone,” Jack suddenly calls to Rose. “Can’t you stay with us a little longer?” she asks. He shakes his head. “Megan’s having a party tonight, by the way. Can I stay out until 11?” They begin negotiating a return time, and for the first time in my life I can feel Rose's heart break a little.
Spring II
“Are you sure you want to do this, Rosie? We can keep looking.” Liam rests his broad shoulders against my trunk and scratches his beard. Rose moves closer to him and takes his free hand. “I’m sure. I’ve always loved this house.” She looks at my yellow-green budding leaves that surround her and Liam. “I’ve always loved this tree.” She looks at him, the lines on her forehead prominent as her eyebrows raise. “Are you sure you want to do this?” He chuckles and pulls her in for a long hug. Neither of them seems to realize that his torso is resting against the carving he and Rose made when we were all young.
Summer II
My family keeps growing around me. Rose and Liam's children bring little ones to visit, and Liam builds his grandchildren a playhouse in my branches. Rose will not let him nail a ladder into my trunk. She climbs the hanging ladder with ease, although she complains about sitting cross legged for long periods of time once inside. They spend almost every day with me. The children use my samaras for their woodland play soups, which Rose pretends to eat. I shade the little ones from the heat of the day and support their airborne home even when they decide to dance as if they were on solid ground. Liam builds a wooden bench and places it underneath my branches. Every night thereafter, he and Rose sit with me to watch the golden evenings turn to dark blue nights. “When I die, I want to be buried here,” Rose abruptly says to him one night. “Do we have to talk about this now?” Liam chuckles in surprise. She softly laughs. “Well, I figured I should let you know sooner or later.” He kisses her temple in reply. And as the nighttime zephyrs waft through my leaves, I use the opportunity to drop a single green leaf to land on my Rosie's lap.
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