TREE

My best friend is a tree.

It used to be a section of tire, but then the bastard went and started talking dirt about me to his friend the brick, and that was the end of that. I threw the both of them into the gulch that runs behind my house, and they haven't bothered me since.

If anyone knew me they might wonder why I would take up with a tree. Trees don't make very good friends, after all. They're self-centered and emotionally immature. They don't know how to be supportive. They're petty and judgemental. They love to say unkind things.

But this tree is different. She's more mature than most. She's more caring. Probably because she's a sagitarius. And a pecan tree at that. She nurtures the tiny creatures that flock to her. She sings to them when fierce gales and heavy rains frighten them. She shushes them when loud thunder booms overhead, between the brilliant flashes of lightening. She mothers them.

And she mothers me, though not as gently. She says I don't need her affections, so much as some discipline. She says I ought to leave her be and go out among my own kind, but she knows I can't do that. I told her so and I told her why, but I don't think she completely understands. Its hard to understand others when you're stationary.

Anyway, I know she'd be lonely without me. Because in between her scoldings she offers me little kindnessess, like a cool shade and the songs of her leaves. She dances for me in the wind. That's how I know we're friends.

Also I bring others by for visits. Not long ago, for instance, I introduced her to the Coke bottle, who is a brilliant conversationalist. He told her so many jokes she started dropping her nuts prematurely. Where did you find this guy, she asked me? I told her about fishing him out of a muddy creekbed, how I plodded through the muck and busted my rumpus, and we all got a laugh out of that. Then some people walking by stared in amazement that a man could laugh and get along with a pecan tree and a coke bottle. I wondered if they even knew why we were laughing.

But then yesterday morning happened. I came by with the milk crate and the bread bag, but the tree gave us all the silent treatment. Most embarrassing. The crate and the bag looked at me like I was crazy.

I swear she's not usually like this.

Sure. Sure.

I took them home and then came back to sit with the tree. What's the matter, I asked her? She was quiet for a long, long time. Something was different.

Are we still friends?

Yes, we're friends, but I'm sick.

Well, if you need me to leave you alone so you can rest . . .

No, she said, I'm sick sick.

Whatever do you mean? You're a tree. Trees don't get sick sick. I'm sure its just a thing.

It's not just a thing, she said. Its a fungus. Its tree rot. Its something. Come here and put your arm in my knot hole.

I came closer and pushed my balled fist through the enclosure.

Now feel around. Go all the way down. Pat your hand around for a minute or two.

Sure hope nothing bites.

Shut up, boy, nothing's going to bite you, she said. No snakes are welcome here. She was testy.

I was in almost to my elbow, and had to slam my hand around without seeing where it went. The inner walls were hard and dry.

Then after a minute I felt a cold spot. Moist and spongy. soft and pliable. Like a mushroom.

I closed my hand around the lump and pulled it out. It was dark and pulpy. I rolled the material in my hand and it crumbled like old dough, coming apart in little balls. I was disgusted.

Its a cancer, she said, devouring me from the inside. Soon my trunk is going to go dry and then I'll fall over dead. I need to be cut down, she said.