A Pine Tree

It is a sunny day on which I stand at the base of a dead pine tree. Its blackened hairs fragment the pale blue sky.

It is a stark contrast to the thorny, yet full figure, that stood stubbornly against a light rain six months ago. Clutching an urn, I too had clung stubbornly to something as the droplets patted my shoulder, trying gently to get me to leave.

My aunt loved this pine tree, and so did those before her. Every year, during the twilight zone between fall and winter, when the courage of mosquitoes waned, we would walk a gentle trail up to a small clearing. Under that lonelily strong pine tree, she would promise that it would be the last time she’d tell me the story.

Ten years of age would slip off her face, and as her eyes found their way up to the sky, I knew that she was no longer talking to me. And then, just as all hope was lost, Mama and Papa spotted a tree shooting up out of the clearing, like an obelisk in the desert…

There is not a cloud in sight, and a nothingness greets me as I turn my eyes upward. It stares at me blankly, asking me a question. And the answer doesn’t come to me as my eyes travel back down the drooping bark.

It has been six months since I last saw our pine tree, and this is not at all how I thought we’d meet. I’d come here to see our lonelily strong pine tree, growing stubbornly for when we’d meet.

...look dear, are there any other trees here? It’s because we water this one...