Still I Wait

Time has moved forward but I remain still. Rooted to the same ground for centuries. People pass me by, often without a second glance. However, every once in a while there will be a young boy or girl who will look my way. Their eyes wide as they stare, as if knowing I am more than a tree.

I feel them as they notice my presence. Not with eyes–I have none– but in the way the wind shifts through my leaves, in the way the soil hums a little bit louder around my roots. Children are closer to seeing–to remembering. But they are taught to look at things, not through them.

Several moons ago, there was a girl. She visited every day, sitting against my trunk. She spoke of rather mundane things, nonsensical dreams, scraped knees, and lost toys. I never could respond, but I listened. I always listen. The seasons continued to pass, as they always do. Her visits become less frequent, her hair and voice changing. Then one day, she stopped coming entirely. I’ve seen this before. And I’ll see it again.

Still I wait.

Because sometimes, very rarely, someone looks at me and truly sees. At that moment, I am more than a tree. I am something remembered.

Long ago, before fumes began hurting my home, it was peaceful. The forest stretched further than what I could sense, a vast network of roots and whispers beneath the soil. We were not separate beings, not entirely. In ways unseen, we were connected. Memories, water, and warnings were shared to everyone who wanted to hear. Back then, I didn’t fear the axe swinging in the air, instead I feared the dangerous burst of light during thunderstorms.

The first men who came did not belong. They were only a few at first, they did not wander nor pause. They did not stop to press a hand to my bark. The men passed through as though the forest were something already gone.

Then came the noise. It started as something distant and unfamiliar. The earth trembled in ways it hadn’t before. This sound filled the spaces in the roots, so loud that even the tiniest creatures stopped to listen.

Trees that had stood through countless storms were taken down in minutes. Not during storms nor in their life cycles, but all at once, roots torn from the soil that once held them. The sound of their roots being torn from the earth underneath will stay with me until it’s my time. Each loss was a growing silence, spreading outwards. Nobody, not even the forest, had time to remember them.

The air grew heavy, the wind bringing unfamiliar scents, and the sky feeling further away than before.

Still, I remained.

Around me, the forest continued to thin. Harsh and unfiltered light hit places it hadn’t been able to before. The soil beneath my roots dried up quicker than before.

In place of trees, unmoving structures rose. They did not breathe like I did, nor did they listen. With the village, came people. More than I had ever known. Their presence constant, voices overlapping and never ceasing footsteps. Before, there had been slow moving seasons, now there was a different kind of time. This time moved quickly with no rest.

During this time was a young boy. He lingered at the edges, as if unsure if he was allowed to enter. When he entered the dwindling forest his steps were small, uncertain. Unlike the men, his steps were careful. He stepped around exposed roots and wavered at unfamiliar sounds. He paused when he reached me, placing a small hand on my cracked bark. The contact was brief and uncertain. But it was enough. With every rising sun, he returned, his back pressed against my trunk.

He didn’t talk, not like the girl had all those years ago, instead he listened with me. In the rare occasions he did speak, his words were quiet, as if meant for himself. Together, we listened to the wind in my branches, the old creak in my limbs, and to the silence in between. There was recognition in this stillness, not fully formed, but there nonetheless.

Time moved, like it always did. The village grew louder, the forest growing smaller. The boy grew taller. His legs are now long and lanky. His visits become less frequent, but not forgotten. Each time he would visit, no matter how long he’d be gone, he would place his hand against my bark, just as he did when he was young. As if to remind himself.

Summer came back again, the sun now beating down harder due to the lack of shade. My roots pushed themselves to the limit to bring in as much water as they could. The once cool wind now only brought more heat, furthering this drought. All around me, trees and other forms of life fall. An unmoving body of water is placed inside the now large city. People flock to it during the hot days, my dying leaves being no use to them.

One morning the familiar sound returned. The growl of machines echoed throughout. Men walked towards me with calculated steps, the same as those men all those years ago. This time however, they stopped.

For the first time in centuries, fear settled deep into my roots. Not fear of storms or earthquakes, but of being erased completely. I would be forgotten before I had the chance to become a true memory.

The boy came along as well, but he was no longer a boy. His head grazed the lower branches, his hair down to his neck. His eyes graze over the empty land surrounding me, over the stumps and the deceased life. I wished to call out to him, for him to walk back over to me and lean against my trunk one last time. But alas, I could not say anything nor could I move when the men raised their axe high into the air.

My branches trembled violently as the world tilted. Leaves scattered everywhere as I hit the ground. But, I did not feel entirely gone.

Because somewhere within the growing city, despite all the noise, there was someone who had truly seen me. One person who had remembered.

And now when time moves forward, so will I.