They are going to cut me down today. I know. I know because I overheard the owner of the house complaining to his wife about how I am now useless, how I do not bear fruit anymore, and how I am merely occupying space. I also know because there is an axe leaning against my trunk since morning.
However, I am not afraid — not of the axe, not of death. Every living thing has to perish one day, right? I am not afraid because my only fear of being forgotten turned into an agonising truth I had to carry every day. Yet I do not blame her for this, because humans get busy; they grow out of things, feelings — they even grow tired of each other. But trees? They do not grow tired; they do not forget.
We remember the hands that planted us. We remember the people who spent their entire evenings in our shade, leaning against our trunk. We also remember the palms that held our fruit.
Twenty-Five Years Ago
I was just a sapling the day I was planted. It was my first time outside a nursery. The sun shone brightly as the breeze ruffled gently through the garden.
“Grow well,” the owner said as he smiled at me. I did — and so did she.
One morning in spring was the first time I saw her; she was just a baby. Since that day, her mother brought her into the garden every afternoon. She grew up in front of me.
Six Years Later
Six years passed by. I had grown taller than her.
“Daddy, I want to climb…” Then she stopped and looked at me. “Wait! I haven’t named you yet!” she laughed. “I will call you Mr Red!”
And so that was the day I was named. It was also the first day she climbed me.
Since that day, she would climb me every day and tell me all sorts of things; it became our routine. Each day, she would show up at the same time, climb me, and swing her legs on my branch as she went on about her day while eating the fruit I bore. Some days she brought a book for the both of us; she would read it out loud, and I would listen.
Each day, I waited for her. I became her confidant. I knew what she liked; I knew the guy who teased her at school; I knew who her best friend was; I knew what her favourite snack was. I knew her; I knew everything about her — well, for a short time I did.
Nine Years Later
Another nine years passed by. She was now fifteen. So was I.
I had grown deeply attached to her. She was a part of my day, a part of my seasons. She was my spring — but to every spring, an autumn is necessary.
And so, one day she didn’t show up — not even on the day after, or the day after that, and so on. At first, it stung me; it bothered me, but I kept deluding myself with sweet lies. I kept telling myself how she must be sick, or had a commitment come up, but deep down I knew it wasn’t the truth. I reassured myself she would come tomorrow, but tomorrow never came.
Ever since that day, I stopped thriving. I felt myself grow weaker each day. Soon, I stopped bearing fruit. And after that? The days went by; nothing mattered anymore.
The Final Farewell
And today, ten years since that day, I have only worsened. So, I do not feel afraid; I do not wish to live any longer.
Here they come.
The owner has now picked up the axe and is ready to raze me to the ground. She stands with her mother, her infant in her arms. She looks at the axe and then at me. I glance into her eyes and see tears.
And, in this moment, my heart feels at peace. I close my eyes as I am put to death, knowing I loved her — and perhaps she loved me too.