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A tree. A tree in a field. A tree in a field in the middle of nowhere. Or somewhere. A tree that rises above all like it is the god of this land. It is. And it is grand. It is holy.
The tree branches out, black wood against a blacker sky, its leaves encompassing the breadth of our love. But it’s almost winter, and I can see the rot setting in. The leaves have already been yellow, orange, red. Soon they will turn brown, shriveled. And one by one, they’ll fall from the tree, abandoning their life and home in favor of the cold, hard ground. Our best years are long gone.
Sometimes a phantom will visit our tree, bringing shadowy words and intangible promises. Fake retribution, false dedication to our decaying deity. It will place empty gifts at the trunk, tributes to a poisoned being.
It is a poison that originates in the soil, the tree unfortunate enough to be planted in its toxicity. Slowly, it spreads into the roots, which stretch out in all directions, hopelessly searching for an escape. But, tethered as they are, their reach does not extend far enough. The venom decimates them and moves on. The trunk is a bit more difficult, thicker and vertical. But eventually it consumes that too, pushing upward on a jetline through limbs and branches and leaves and soon the whole tree is enveloped. A poisonous prison. Its existence was not our fault, but we did nothing to stop its spread.
I can see the snow falling now. Decomposing leaves litter the ground, half frozen but not trampled. No one visits the tree anymore. Except me. A fox saunters by, hurrying back to its den. It asks me why I’m still here. I say I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the memory of what this tree used to be. I’m drawn by the traces of summer, of warmer days and full bloom. Of flowers and honey bees. It has been many months since summer.
Sometimes I think we loved because that’s all we knew how to do. It was only natural. Nature has a curious method of telling me I was wrong. I thought I could pollute my vanity with you. I think you may have broken me.
A sharp wind blows in from the north. I wrap my coat tighter around me. A few leaves whirl up around my feet, like the hands of corpses reaching to drag me down into their earthly cells. I kick them away. Maybe someday I would have gone with them. But I am sobered by the bitter cold, not numbed but acutely registering each bite. Here, I am winter’s pincushion.
I don’t remember when it happened. There wasn’t a moment. It was more like a sunset, our love phasing out and disappearing over the horizon. It was lies, evasion, and neglect. Rejection, distance, unfamiliarity. By the end, I barely knew who you were. You pushed me away as if I was a puzzle piece that didn’t fit in your new picture of yourself. I didn’t recognize your coldness. You became harshly indifferent. Your heart turned to ice.
An owl. An owl in a tree. An owl in a tree in the middle of nowhere. Or somewhere. The owl murmurs as if it is giving orders to the wind, as if it is a harbinger. It is. And it is proud. It is hateful.
Sometimes I blame the owl. Accuse those golden eyes of sorcery, of conjuring the hate between us. I let my anger and desperation at you, at myself, relocate to the beast. But I know it is an unfair displacement, and so I turn my head in shame, if only to spare myself from looking at that contemptuous creature.
By the end I desperately wanted our tree to survive. To live somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. It’s too bad that the poison had already enacted its vengeance, run its bitter course. The roots were long dead, the happy sapling long forgotten. Sometimes I wonder if things could’ve ended differently. Perhaps if we had taken better care of the tree in its early stages, or simply visited once in a while. It may be that it grew resentful in its age and loneliness.
I turn away from our tree, the dead leaves clutching my ankles, and I start to walk back toward the road. I pass the phantom with its most recent deceit. Reaching the hill, I look back. I can see from this distance the faint glow of candlelight at the base of our trunk. With luck, it will catch the dry wood and send the whole tree up in flames. But I have never been lucky. The spirit waves to me once before it, too, becomes lost in black bark.
A car is waiting for me. I did not drive here. In fact, I never mean to come, until one moment I’m crossing the street and the next I’ve escaped to this tree in the middle of nowhere. Or somewhere. The car’s driver nods to me. I can’t see their face. Yet I know they will take me away from here, return me to the city where my mind can be peacefully distracted. I don’t say anything. They don’t look at me. They just drive. There is a song playing from the radio and I can’t hear it, but the driver sings along anyway. And through the window, I watch as our tree fades into the horizon, and I don’t feel anything. I do not say goodbye because I know I will be back.
And so a candle burns below our dead tree as the owl sings, impatient, from its canopy. It’s calling to you, waiting for me to move on.
Oh, sweetheart. What have you done?