James had heard the story of the Tree from his father as a boy. Going into the forest behind the house, he had come into a clearing dominated by a lone pine, surrounded by pinecones and further out, a handful of maples. He thought it was one of the most peaceful places he’d ever been. When he returned home, he asked his father about it.
“Well son, that tree was planted by your grandfather, probably 50 or 60 years ago,” came his father’s voice in reply. James believed it. He continued to go back to spend time there in the calming gaze of the Tree. Those had been the good days, when the innocence of childhood served as an impenetrable shield against the harsh nature of the real world.
Years went by, the looming pine conducting the changing seasons for the perennial maples in his harem. James was a frequent visitor to the grove, often alone or accompanied by his schoolwork. He trimmed the lower branches over the years, leaving a comfortable gap between the ground and the Tree’s outstretched arms where he sat.
Before long, James had gone to college and left the Tree and his comfortable solitude. His junior year, he returned with his girlfriend, Marie, for Thanksgiving. After dinner they snuck off, James leading their way to the foot of the Tree. They lay down in the fresh snow, making angels and identifying the wisps of clouds. He gazed deep into her eyes, studying her expressions, before taking her in a deep embrace. It was a perfect day in a perfect world, a moment he forever locked in time in his memory.
Two years later the clearing had been filled in with streamers, chairs, and people, all there to celebrate their marriage. Even the Tree was dressed for the affair, with white ribbons flowing between the branches which swayed in the gentle breeze. They filed around the Tree with their parents and relatives for a picture, a touch of posterity to be framed above the hearth of their new home. Everyone soon left, the immense evergreen waving in the wind as they departed.
About ten months later, Marie gave birth to their only child, a son, Christopher. Celebrating their first anniversary, they pushed his stroller through the woods. They stopped at a large rock a short way from the Tree to sit and rest. It was a windy day and the Tree tossed tumultuously. James held Christopher, still reveling in the novelty of having a child. Chris’ young eyes followed the top of the Tree swaying to and fro. A young family united in the presence of nature. It was one of too few instances James remembered.
Several years would pass before James returned to the grove. It was hard for him to go back to happy places like the Tree after Marie died. Her cancer had been incurable, and despite the best efforts of her doctors, she passed away leaving James and six-year-old Chris to carry on. It had been hard for him, raising young Christopher by himself. The work wasn’t exactly pouring in as a rural lawyer, and he had to stretch his salary to afford the essentials for the both of them, as well as pay off the exorbitant medical and funeral bills.
It was a brisk fall day when father and son returned to the park. The Tree’s vibrant green dominated the landscape as James watched Chris play with the pinecones. James studied the Tree, noticing his browning lower branches and piles of equally drab needles strewn about his base. As Chris pattered off to climb one of the defoliated maples, James lit up a cigarette, took a pull off his flask, and lost himself in his thoughts. He smoked, every drag sparking another memory. It was far more than he cared to deal with. Grabbing Chris’ hand, they headed home, the Tree sagging sullenly in the breeze.
While more than a decade passed, the Tree aged gracefully. Three of the seasonal trees succumbed to storms and laid uprooted while the Tree stood proud. Finally, Chris returned to the park on a late afternoon in August. He was returning to the park he remembered dimly from his youth. Looking up and down at the Tree, he walked in pensive laps around his perimeter. Finally, he sat in his shadow as his father had enjoyed as a child. Before long, he fell asleep, not to be awoken until James arrived several hours later.
James aged far less gracefully than the Tree had. His once black hair had receded and gone prematurely grey, partially from the stresses inherent with being a single parent on a tight budget. Recognizing his son by his school jacket with his flashlight, peacefully sleeping in the shelter of the Tree, he sat down on the rock and took a deep breath. He’d avoided coming back here for years, but the sight of Chris assuaged his tensions. Chris stumbled out from under the Tree and stood next to his father. They sat silently for a short while, gazing up at him and the star field beyond. Chris’ voice broke the silence.
“Y’know dad, I see why you and mom liked this place so much.”
“Yeah, it’s really got some charm,” replied James, smiling wistfully. He stood and took a long look at the Tree before turning to head home. Chris followed soon after, leaving the Tree sighing in the wind.
James came back to the Tree for one final visit with Chris the following spring. The last few months had been hard for both James and the Tree. A harsh winter had broken many of the veteran Tree’s branches, while liver failures plagued James. His choice to turn to the bottle in his son’s absence combined with a hereditarily poor liver led to his downfall. They sat on the rock, looking up at the withered old Tree, standing far less proudly than he used to. They stayed for nearly an hour in silence before leaving. The Tree was uprooted in a storm the following week. James died the next day.
For nearly a month, nothing stood in the center of the clearing. Chris had cut and removed the once venerable Tree, leaving his widowed and lifeless brethren standing awkwardly around the hole where the conifer had been. Chris rectified this in short order, returning one weekend to plant a fledgling pine replacement. When he had finished, he sat on the rock, remembering his father. They had buried him with a twig from the Tree in his jacket pocket. It seemed only appropriate. He stood and left the young successor standing alone in the clearing, the child’s branches waving their regards in the breeze.
