The Tale of a Tree Child

The Tale of the Tree Child

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Once I was a seed blown about on the wind, whistling through the air after being spat out by a sticky fingered boy; just in the process of enjoying his fruit well stolen.

Now, I am an apple tree, proud and tall. I've weathered cold seasons, and warm seasons, and strange seasons--but none of them stick in my memory quite like this one.

But first, I must remind you, that Trees are always waiting.

But, I am a patient tree.

A woman came to me, crying and weeping, and placed a bawling red bundle on my roots. And then, like so many of my children, she walked away from the safety of my gently blowing branches, and did not turn back. Not knowing what else to do, I made a cocoon around the swaddled bundle with the driest of my leaves, and tucked it away in the hollow of my trunk. It slept soundly, and I was relieved. When the child awoke, its crying tearing across the dewy grass; a wind gently lulled the child back into slumber.

I stood up straighter, and reached my limbs higher, and whispered to the wind, "A child lives," and the wind carried it on. Moments later, it came back, and howled, "Whhhherrre?" And I replied, "I lives in me."

The wind turned, and split into four, telling all the things on a compass of my news. And so I waited, just as I had before to grow into an apple, then to fall from my mother, then to become a seed in the ground, wanting to reach higher.

Trees are always waiting.

But, I am a patient Tree.

Soon enough, the wind came back, and screeched excitedly, "A visitor approaches." I peered around my branches, and saw the same as woman before, only different. Where once she was a young and strong sapling, now stood an old dry piece of bark, trodden on by careless animals trying to climb the mother tree.

She stumbled as she climbed my roots, and swayed when she peered blearily into my hollow. She reached out, and caressed one soft cheek, a cheek the clouds could envy: white, soft, but not as wet.

She bent over the child, and kissed it, then with a dangerous sense of purpose, reached up and plucked one of my children that was ready to fall.

I heard the cries of my child, so I soothed it, "Child of mine that clings to my leaves--go! Travel the winds and seek shelter in the ground, then, make of that of which was given to you for another. Grow tall and wise, and spread more of your children about this earth, and remember the root from which you have sprung, (when you are old)."

The woman lay in a small den under my roots, and bit the apple. Her breathing became slower, more irregular, and then stopped. My branches swayed in the wind once more, and my child rolled around, forgotten at my feet. The babe within me slept on.

And so I waited.

Trees are always waiting.

But, I am a patient Tree.