The Tree and Her Boy

Dear Reader, lend me your eyes so you may see what I see: a boy perched high above in the branches of an old tree. She is his haven, an escape from the harshness of life. There, cradled in her long, outstretched arms he can breathe. He can dream.

Now, Reader, lend me your imagination. With the imagination, we have been given a place to see the unseeable, to do the impossible, and to be whatever we want to be – a place of solace to hide away from the pain of the world, even if only for a breath. Imagine with me a place in time where a boy fleeing from his sorrows and a tree who loves him dearly can exist.

Now, Reader, open your heart. Hang on every word you read and every image you see. Feel what the boy and tree feel. Allow your heart to soften, to ache when need be, and to weep and breathe.

The Tree And Her Boy

Once there was a tree, a happy tree who loved a little boy who came and played on her branches singing and laughing. The boy would lie under the tree’s leaves on the soft ground, and he would sing and tell stories to the tree of the world she was destined never to see – stories happy and sad, good or bad. The boy loved the tree because the tree listened.

But as most children do, the boy grew up, and then only visited once and while. The tree waited patiently, knowing this was the way with boys growing into young men. One day, the boy came again looking very troubled.

“Come, rest under my branches and tell me your woes,” the tree said.

She curved her base and arched her branches so that shade would give respite to the boy. The boy told the tree about a girl, and how his feelings for her had budded then blossomed like a flower. The tree’s branches quivered with happiness at the news, but she simply listened as the boy poured out his heart. The boy spoke until he had nothing else to tell. Finally he stood, thanked the tree, and bade her goodbye. As she watched him leave, the tree felt a ray of joy pierce through her leaves and branches. She had helped her boy.

A month went by and the boy came again, but this time he was not alone. It was dark, and the moon shone brightly in the clear night sky, casting silver streams of light into the tree and onto boy’s nervous face. There, beneath the moonlit branches of the old tree, he went to one knee and held up to the girl a beautiful ring. The diamond caught the light and the girl’s breath. With a gasp, the girl nodded her head and threw herself into the boy’s arms. Above them, the branches of the tree thrilled with delight, sending a few leaves fluttering down like snow around them.

Not long after, the tree was decorated with lights and flowers that wound around her trunk and draped from her branches. A stage and carpet were placed, and tables and chairs set up. Everything was dressed in elegant white and colorful flowers that awed the tree. Then all were in attendance, and the bride came out fair and beautiful. Those present, along with the tree, shed more than one tear at this joyful ceremony. There was music, dancing, and laughter far into the night.

A few years went by and the boy had children of his own, which he brought to the tree to play beneath her branches. She loved them as she loved the boy. For the tree, it was the happiest time of her long life. But one day a strong zephyr swept in from the ocean which caused the tree to shiver, carrying with it dark news and ill tidings. The boy continued to visit the tree, but now his stories became dark. He brought with him stories of conflict and strife, of a brewing war in Europe, and of the pain and suffering which it caused. The tree grieved with the boy; she could not fathom the idea of war or of boys, like her little boy, fighting and killing each other.

One fateful day, the boy went to the tree, looking forlorn and bearing grave news.

“I must go to war now, my dear friend,” explained the boy. “Would you watch over my children when they come to play beneath you and enchant them with your tall, long branches that reach so high? I pray they find solace in your shade and comfort in your company. Listen to them as you listened to me. Be a bastion for them like you were for me in times of need,” the boy asked.

The tree assured him that she would look after them as she had always done for him. The boy’s heart swelled in gratitude. He turned to leave, but stopped and turned back to the tree.

“Shall we have one last story before I leave?”

He smiled, wiping the tears from his eyes, and climbed up into the tree’s branches like he used to many years ago. The tree cherished this and kept it close to her trunk, treasuring it always. Day turned to evening, and eventually the boy had to leave. He sprang off the branch and patted the tree.

“Farewell old friend. I hope someday when the war is over that I can spend longer under your great branches, regaling you with all the stories I acquire on my many adventures.”

“Farewell, my little boy, my dear sweet boy,” cried the tree.

The next day the boy kissed his wife and children goodbye, and marched out in uniform to an armored vehicle. Waving one last time to his family and tree, he left.

Years went by, and the boy never returned home. The tree missed him dearly. She missed his laughter and songs and tales as he lay under her shade. Even though the years were long, the tree remained ever vigilant for her boy’s return.

One dark morning, a car pulled up to the house, and two men in uniform stepped out and went to the front door. The tree watched them curiously as they knocked and were invited in. An anguished cry came from the house, startling the tree and causing several leaves to fall. It was something the tree had never heard before, and never wished to again. The children came out and ran to the tree, sitting beneath her and weeping openly. Confused, the tree asked them why they cried so.

“Our father will never come home again laughing and singing. Instead, he will come home in a box, and we will have to bury him somewhere safe.”

The tree trembled with grief from her trunk to her highest leaves. Her boy was gone. The tree answered, “Bury him by my roots. I will look after him and keep him safe so he will always be near.”

And so they buried him under the tree, and the tree shook her branches, rattling in sorrow and sadness. The little boy would never go to her again. Her little boy. Never to sing and laugh or tell stories, but to lie cold and silent beneath her branches.

So the tree kept watch like a silent sentry guarding the grave of her little boy, her branches keeping water from falling on his gravestone. She sang and told him stories about when he was gone off at war as he lay under her shade forever.

And the tree remembered her boy’s wishes, watching after his children as she had done for him many years ago.

And there, my dear Reader, is the story of The Tree And Her Boy.