A Tree's Heart
The tree had gone by many names over the nearly two hundred years of its existence. It remembered, in the very beginning, the boy who had planted its seed staring in wonder as its first shoot broke ground. His mother had knelt in the dirt next to him, saying, “That’s called a seedling.” So, seedling had been the first.
From there the tree had become a sapling. After that, the boy decided it should, for some reason, be called Mikey, and so it remained for the boy’s childhood. No one called it anything but the tree after the boy moved away from home.
When the boy returned some years later, now a grown man with a family of his own, he hung a swing from one of the tree’s strong branches. His children always referred to it as the swing tree, though the boy-man occasionally would whisper to the tree in the dark of night, calling it Mikey, as in his youth.
The boy-man grew old, and his children came and took him away. The house sold and went through a series of families, some of whom named the tree, many of whom did not. The house itself grew old, eventually blowing down in a storm. No one built on the lot again, and eventually it was turned into a park. The tree liked the park. Many children came to play beneath its branches.
As the years passed, the tree grew tall, and its branches stretched out in all directions. When storms came, they would blow fiercely in the winds, whipping in all directions. A camera crew filmed it during one especially violent storm. Someone dubbed it the wild tree, not believing it could withstand such forces at its great old age.
Though wild was the last name it would ever bear, the tree never forgot its first boy and its first name, remaining, in its heart, Mikey to the end of its days.
This story grew from a random title: The Wild Tree. Ultimately, I chose to change the name, though the suggested title did inspire the tale. Funny how these things tend to decide their own direction. Leave a comment. Feel free to leave a prompt. I’ll write you a story, which you can read right here on Fiction in 50.
I figured this wood be good. And it was. 😉
This brought tears to my eyes, memories of my childhood tree. It was my solace, my freedom. In its branches, I could hide from the world below. Because we lived on a hill, from the top, I could see that world. It was such a big world, with houses and people and the north shore mountains as the backdrop. The house, the tree, are long gone and living no where but in my memory but I will always remember that in that tree my love of nature, my hopes and dreams were born. Thank you.