Bartlett

I remember when I was young, thin and lithe, with flimsy, flexible limbs that reached toward the sky. I thought only of myself, how tall I would grow, what I could offer to the world.

So many years have passed. Hot, humid summers followed by frigid, icy winters. The sorrow I would feel every fall, when my leaves would change and fall from my branches, to the unbridled optimism that coursed through every limb, branch, and twig when they grew again every spring.

Over the years I grew tall and strong, bearing an abundance of fruit every summer for the beings around me. I was once swarmed by bees; now wasps have replaced them. They are angrier, more violent toward the other creatures. The humans sprint toward and away from me, grabbing what fruit they can to avoid being attacked by the irritated insects.

Humans have come and gone, but I have remained, watching them grow and change. Lovers have lain beneath me, peering up at the sky through my branches while I blossom above them. Petals littered the earth where they laid their blanket and their selves, like confetti celebrating the love they shared.

Deer and rabbits and racoons and squirrels and birds have nibbled at my fruit, bruised and bursting on the ground and hard and unripe on my branches. Some are picky and some are not. Cats have slept peacefully and securely in my branches. I embrace them and their mischief as they peer at and stalk the smaller creatures around them. They do not eat my fruit, but they enjoy my shade and height.

I am old now, though the humans that live here still cherish me, still pick what little fruit I can offer. I am hollow, but still, I live, and my fruit is juicy and ripe and sweet. I have lived a full life, watching the small world around me. I have weathered violent storms with winds so strong they threatened to pull my roots from the earth. I stood fast, a part of this world, determined to live, to grow.

I did live, and I did grow, and now, in my final years, I treasure the memories I have, the life I have lived, and the creatures around me who loved me each and every summer. My life has seemed both long and short, and I wonder if others feel the same way about their own lives. The trees around me live longer lives than I do. The pines beside me are still young; we are the same age, yet I am ancient and they are in their adolescence. They thrive all through the year, even when their branches are weighed down by heavy snow, and they will continue to thrive for hundreds more years. I will be less than a memory, by then.

I am lost in my thoughts, as I often am, as I have little else to do and to be, when I see a child and a parent coming toward me. The parent carries a tool, and the child carries a wrapped thing. I wonder idly what their plan is. I recognize the parent, who grew up in the house close to me. He has brought his child to see me since she was small—smaller than she is now.

The parent digs a hold beside me. It is a small hole, and takes very little time to dig. The child unwraps the object, and I marvel at what she holds.

A smaller version of me. Could I have once been that small?

The parent and child carefully place the smaller version of me inside the small hole in the earth, and finish by patting the soil down. The parent wanders over to me, and slowly ambles around my trunk, feeling my bark, my dry twigs, and my hollow centre. He says words to the child, and she nods, looking a little solemn.

I have lived a good life—a life that was full of life. I do not feel sad that I am nearing the end. I have wisdom to pass on to the small one beside me, and I hope that it will listen. It will soon be my time to leave, and time for a new tree to bear new fruit, to live, to grow, to thrive.