The makings of a family tree. Me, my Mr. Momma, Lala, and Little Em, all branches reaching out, striking for the sky.
Am I the trunk?
Will I stay still and watch everyone grow around me, reaching up, up, up?
They don’t see my roots though. Growing, pushing, unseen, into everything. Taking from the soil, drinking in the darkened sun that lives under the ground.
What will come of this tree? These branches? What about the other trunks, brothers, sisters. Are we a forest? Living together, but separate, only our roots touching under the ground, on a different path than the one that travels in the sun.
My family tree is missing many trees. Some have been cut down, forgotten, missing, never known. Perhaps your house was made from one of them.
The fruit that grows on my tree is sweet, but high and hard to get. You will need a ladder or permission to climb. In the summer the branches hang low, heavy with fruit. Weighted and burdened, you will reach them easily then.
Someone cut this tree once. They thought it looked ripe for the taking, young, skinny, not much trouble. But, the center was strong and it wouldn’t come down. You can still see the scar.
Un-coniferous, we lose all our leaves come the chill. We lay naked against the sky for all to see. Look quickly, for the sun will warm us soon enough and cover our bare limbs once again.
Apples? There are no apples here. Our fruit can not be named. You must eat and decide for yourself what kind we may be.
A family of trees we be. Glaciers of the wood, yet unmoving. Our seeds fly on the wind. Don’t catch one on your tongue, or we’ll sprout in your belly.
A knot grows at the base. Thick and gnarled, it hides a secret. One you will only see once you cut me down.
I see no more branches coming, for this is my lot. I run my limbs along theirs and feel the pulse of the sun trailing down to the ground.
Water. Bring the water and the sun, and we will drink together.