Trees

There used to be a forest, hugged on either side by steep hills and bordered by a mighty river. Two people had made their lives in the forest, content in each others company after an eventful life, and had peace. They built a home, from sturdy timber of seasoned oaks. They dug a well, and planted a cherry tree, a maple and a gingko. In spring, they would sit on their porch and watch the cherry blossom stain the snow dusted ground a tender pink. In summer, they would sit under the shade of the gingko and watch as the fan shaped leaves shimmered in the sun. In autumn, they would watch the maple blaze in all its glory and tread upon the ground carpeted in fiery foliage. In winter, they would peer out of the snow framed window and see the trees their skeletal branches turned to the sky, letting the winter frost hang icicles off their fingers. So, the seasons passed.

Late in their lives, they had borne a son, a strong, sweet child. This boy spent much time by himself in his childhood, wandering within the forest, swimming in the rivers, catching fish in the pool that a glistening waterfall had dug into the rock after centuries of endeavoring effort. He lived a free life, and spent many an evening outside, with a fire roasting his fishy dinner. He knew every constellation by name, having sought them out many an evening beside the many streams that ran near his home. Every cave was to be explored, every tree climbed, every animal named and every pool swum. When their child eventually grew older, the old couple saw that their son needed company besides what they could provide. They wanted to provide him with an education, a future. So, the house in the forest was boarded up, and the whole family left for the city. The house stood empty in the forest. Much time passed.

The child grew into an adult, and was filled with wonder for this house in the woods that filled his childhood memories. In his dreams, he could see an old house, made of wood and dotted with small ferns that had seeped into the cracks. Sunlight always filtered on to the house, staining the brown a dashing green. He dreamed of three trees, so vastly different. An elegant maple, blazing in the warm afternoon sun, would drop leaves onto the ground and into a tall jar of water. A gnarled cherry blossoming in the snow, would greet the impending spring. A stately gingko offering shade in the summer, and golden fans perfect for preserving in the autumn month. He yearned for the sparkling mist of the cascades, the deeps pools and sweet waters. He ached to hear the wind rustling the trees into sighing, coaxing them to creak. What began as a dream had blossomed into wanderlust.

Packing his bags, he turned away from the smog filled streets of the city, travelled from the jam packed streets and little squares of sky peeking down from above the buildings. His parents did not remember much about where this house still stands, but had left him a general direction. He set out with wonder in heart, and a light in his eyes. The first step into the forest had sent shivers of delight down his spine. But when he eventually found the house about a month later, he had named as the most relieved moment of his life. When he awoke the next morning, with sunlight streaming in from a moss encased window, he first noticed the cracks in the ceiling, and how roots had began to worm their way in. Upon stepping outside, the thick wooden stairs had released a hollow thunk and let out a breath of its crumbling insides. Walking a little ways from the house, he stumbled upon the well, with its stones worn down from the decades of wind, rain, sun and frost. And so, the restorations had begun. Time passed quickly.

When she stumbled across this place, tired, hungry and utterly lost, it seemed like a hermit’s humble abode compared to my luxury apartment that was currently inaccessible and somewhere on this planet. He had taken her in, fed her, laughed at her, dressed her, listened to her story, laughed some more, pointed her down an overgrown dear trail and bid her farewell, adieu. So it was by pure chance that she wandered back to that house, some years later, in tears, heart broken, lost in another sense, and homeless. It had not been her intention to drift into that recluse. But then again, she had long since accepted that all who belonged to this place would be drawn here eventually, in one way or another. He took her in again, this time without words, without a smile. Under the shade of the gingko, she made peace with the past, lying on a carpet of fire, she smiled at my own foolishness, gazing into the firelight reflecting off the frost on the window sill, she gave forgiveness and under the peach blossoms, she eventually learned to laugh, and love. In time, he learnt to return those feelings. So, time flew by unnoticed.

Another generation was borne within the house, another circle, and another story not unlike the last. So how I had ended up here alone was of great mystery to me. Daily, there was much to be done. The porch was to be swept, the worn paving stones weeded, the graves tended and the firewood to be found. In spring, there were shoots and wild herbs to be gathered, in summer, fungus and medicines to be picked, in autumn, nuts, berries and game to be preserved and in winter, a fire to stoke and goods to sell. It had become a necessity to venture out into the world since the time my relatives first built this wooden retreat. Unlike my brothers, I had never developed the burning curiosity they seemed to harbor for the outside world, and was content to stay here, concealed by underbrush and tall trunks. And so I had ended up here, alone. But according to the rules of this place, if tradition would follow, then one day, someone will stumble across this house once again, and remain. So in a way, I had started to wait for my one true love to come to me.

As fairytales dictate, I had a sheltered childhood like everyone who ever knew this place. Filled with fairytales, outdoor activities, books and our own stories, an imagination had blossomed within every member of our secluded family. So strong was this imagination that I could not imagine this true love arriving in any other time than dusk, when the shadows had long drawn forgiving veils over my visage. I began the long standing tradition of standing in the doorway, in my most elegant gown, facing the only path that led to this house. From when the first shadows crept over the house to when the first star winked, I would stand and wait. At the end of every evening, there filled within me not disappointment, but happiness that one more day has passed until my true love should arrive. By this time, the cherry tree had begun to die. A particularly fierce storm had tore through the forest early that winter, rattling the house, shaking the very foundations of the trees, ripping off the last leaves hanging precariously off brittle branches and scattering them within the first snowfall. The first sun rays had touched a torn up root, then a fallen trunk, and finally, bent and broken limbs. The cherry tree had breathed its last. That winter was particularly memorable. The cherry wood that eventually found its way into my fireplace instilled a permanent sweet smell into the room, as the walls soaked up the last remnants of the elderly tree. The maple now stood with only the gingko, and I knew that great changes had been installed in the future. The gaping hole that once represented spring remained unfilled, and soon became worn and smooth. Time ebbed on, but spring still came.

A new sapling soon replaced the grand tree, and now the hole was filled. It seemed weak and small compared to the other two, but they had much longer lives. It represented my new beginning. Throughout that period, I had not waited by the doorway. I decided that tradition no longer served a purpose and the new sapling was on the receiving end of my undivided attention. A cherry usually flowers within 5 years, but this one seemed reluctant to flower. It grew, tall and strong, but every spring, its branches remained bare until the first green of leaves marred its brown, scarred branches. Even the internet, one of the many modern adjustments installed with the house, revealed only a shadow of light upon the subject. So, the tree grew, and I, older with it.

One early spring day, I had been doing the routine sweeping around of the pavement when I noticed a swelling upon the branches of the now mature cherry tree. Brown, furred and tinged in the slightest pink, I knew this was no leaf. Sure enough, one swelling was followed by another, and by the time the gingko had first leaved, the courtyard was littered with pink petals once again, after so many years. The cherry had outdone itself, sweeping up in its arms a pink and white gown unlike any other I’ve witnessed from its predecessor, and painted the ground in its delicate pastel hues. Amassed, petals few like confetti in the slightest breeze, and yet still much, much more remained. I had been sweeping the pavement, exhilarated and punch-drunk from the flowers’ sweet scent when yet another miracle dawned on the house in the woods. At first, I wasn’t sure if all was right within my mind. Surely, across the sweeping curtain of petals, there was not another human figure, tall, rugged and somewhat weather beaten, making its way slowly towards the house. Surely it was not a rather handsome male, looking awestruck yet blissful within the caress of my beloved tree. Oh but it was. The rest my dear readers, I’m sure you can guess. Much time will pass in bliss.