text: # I Am a Tree *I am a tree.* *An apple tree.* *My name is Woody Elwood Jr., but Woody works just fine.* *I was born to Mr. Woody and Willow Elwood on April 22, 1901.* *My father worked as a photosynthesizer and my mother as a housewife.* *I have sixteen older sisters -- Acacia, Aspen, Butternut, Ebony, Hazel, Laurel, Magnolia, Maple, Olive, Rowan, Sassafras, Spruce, Sugarberry, Sycamore, Tulip, Walnut-- and one older brother -- Paul.* *I grew up just outside Forst Manor. I decided to stay there, and so did all my relatives, barring Paul.* **Here** is my story: I was planted by one Christopher Forst. He was a young chap -- a mere eight years old -- when his green thumb first met my ... green ... thumb. I liked the boy: an awful charmer, he was. His hair was perpetually shaggy, his polos perpetually dirty, and his smile: perpetual. His nose pointed as if to have its parents tell it that it’s rude to point, and his eyes were blue as if to have their parents tell them off for crying in such an ugly manner! The boy was astute. He made sure to always have his studies complete before supper, and he would often find himself in need of my shade while reading *Paradise Lost* or *Candide* or *The Holy Bible* in the blistering sun. I was just a sapling, and yet I would listen to the stories as he read them aloud to himself. He spoke of heaven, of hell, of moral philosophy, and of Jesus. (To think one of my own became that crucifix. Damn my brethren!) I personally did not belong to any church, but Christopher did. That satisfied me enough. When Christopher’s parents were too negligent to water me, Christopher did it himself. And when Christopher’s sister -- Jasmine -- peeled away at my tender, timber skin, he would pull her away and admonish the girl. Christopher was my protector. Childhood was particularly difficult for us. Christopher lost his father -- he was now fifteen -- and he did not take it well. He became resentful, hateful of his own being and blaming everything on himself for something he could have never wished to control. The boy still loved me, though. He would run off from his mother and come to me to sit under, arms crossed and nose pointed. I would whisper to him that everything would be O.K., but I don’t think he heard me -- he only listened. His tears would water saddened ol’ me to make me feel better. He loved despite his own self-pity. He would now read to me even better stories -- books like *Great Expectations* and *Tess of D’Urbervilles*. He really did care. As a teenager, my body started to change. My hair started to curl, my branches started to crack, and I grew roots in places I had never seen roots grow before. I soon produced my own seeds, who flew into the Church’s graveyard. All but one -- Woody Jr. Jr. -- had to be dug up by Church officials’ orders. My friends would now say things like “Woody’s got a Woody” and “That’s a mighty bush you’ve got there,” but I paid them no mind. Christopher’s mum had died, too, now. He was no longer a boy and thus did not react in such an unstately manner as he once did with his father. Jasmine had gone off to live with a French chap, but Christopher stayed loyal to me. He had no wife, nor any children. He was a bachelor like me, and a content one, too. I never found myself very attracted to any of the birds by the manor -- and by birds, I mean trees. There was one just down Wick Lane - Ashley, I think: a gorgeous pear tree -- but she was too far away. Any chance of communication between us would need to be through others of our kind or a partridge, but such an endeavor was fruitless. I was happy without a female companion, so long as Christopher was. I soon decided to get a job as an apprentice soil technician. My dad always encouraged me to remain traditional and work as a photosynthesizer, but soil technicianing was always much more appealing to me. Plus, money doesn’t grow on trees. Christopher got himself a lass -- a Ms. Brandon Maisel -- and he now wore glasses. He became increasingly distant. I was hurt, but not completely torn. He would still come and water me -- rarely, though -- as he was working as a failed writer most of the day. My sisters had all gotten married -- some to the same tree! I was still without a better half, and I was O.K. with that. Christopher’s wife was now expecting -- a bigger deal for humans than it is trees, it seems. You would think I’d have been cynical and envious. But I was actually quite gay. Another Christopher to read me stories, to sing me songs, to protect me from the evils. I was older now, a little more weathered, but still well and intact. Christopher had bought cattle to roam the estate, and things were looking good. Christopher and Mrs. Christopher had a beautiful baby boy -- Thomas. He was too young to read to me yet, but I yearned for the day he would. He did not. Thomas passed from scarlet fever in his sleep one midsummer’s night. The many days I spent hoping this was a dream. Christopher spent more and more days at Church, praying to God to return his son, but He did not give him him. As my green hair became spottily brown, Christopher’s brown hair became spottily white. His wife grew pregnant again, but all they did now was squabble. It was a lonely May night -- 8 months after his son’s passing -- when Christopher came home from a nearby warehouse with a long rope. My boy approached me; he was finally back to love me, to read to me, to kiss me goodnight when I cried my lonesome tears of dew. He was my Son and my Father alike, a majestic brew of all that is Good and Bad and Excellent. And he grabbed a branch. No, he *really* grabbed it. It was a forceful grip rather than a light tug. So he grabbed me, and he laid the rope upon my arm. Well, what lies next is evident. Needless to say, the Forst Manor was soon empty, his wife moving far, far away following the horrifying death of her husband. My leaves -- very few, though -- remained stained red. It kept my hair warm. I was sad. A gorgeous and fertile young cow -- no older than two -- came up to me the night of to ask if I was okay. I nodded. She hugged me and introduced herself. “Maggie.” “Maggie what?” “Just Maggie.” “Your kind doesn’t have last names? *How animalistic!*” Maggie became a good friend of mine; though, my sisters would giggle at me for befriending a cow, because “all they eva’ speak is bull.” But Maggie did not speak anything of the sort -- in fact, she was quite grounded. “Maggie, tell me, beautiful girl,” I said. “To which Mr. Father Cow do you belong?” She pointed her finger to her father, Buttercup. He was an enormous and frightening bull, one with a curious proclivity toward harm. One day, however, I braced myself and asked for permission for his daughter’s hoof in marriage. He granted as I wished. Maggie, a former resident of a farm, had, too, heard stories. This time from a kind, young girl. “*You ain’t never herd’a Peter Pan!?*” Maggie would ask me, excitedly. “Gee, it’s the best book I’d ever heard!” My books apparently were “outdated,” and “vintage,” but I had disagreed. She would share what she remembered of the stories with me, and I would share what I remembered with her. We would spend nights away, reading to another *The Rainbow* or *Walden*. Workers came by sometimes to scout the house. I didn’t know why. I married Maggie on July 12, 1942, in attendance by all my sisters but one. Paul did not come to visit. Workers visited more frequently, now checking the house. We shared our first kiss a few weeks later. Workers plunged into the ground with “OPEN HOUSE” signs. Maggie and I had our first child on April 29, 1943 -- a sweet, baby cow girl ... *cowgirl?* Realtors were already showing the manor to visitors, builders already busting away at doors. The Forst Manor was being destroyed. It was a happy summer day. I was thinking quite a lot about Christopher this day -- June 5 of that same year ... Yes, that’s it. I was reminiscing about the times he would read to me the Devil’s banishment to Hell or Candide’s epic travels in El Dorado. To-day, they were planning to move the cattle. That meant my poor Maggie. Maggie was taken away on the back of a trolley to a slaughterhouse. Buttercup remained here. Weeks later, a lumberjack was hired to cut me down. I got on no knees and said to him, “please, please, Heavenly Father! Do for me a favor -- find for me the gorgeous and fertile cow at the nearest slaughterhouse, and ensure our eternal entanglement in death.” The ginger, full-bearded man stabbed me, cutting away one bit at a time. Whether or not he heard this plea or by coincidence, me and Maggie did end up together. I am no longer a tree. *We* are a book. *This book.* ***(Author Note: This makes sense if it was in a book of short stories, which I could do.)*** And her tender, leather skin holds me so.