Timber, Timbre

You’d think my life is boring, and in some ways you’d be right. There were weeks more repetitive than others. Sometimes days blended into the next, and I’d lose track of time, only to be pulled out of the daze by the soft melody of a bird singing or a harsh wind. Some days the hum of an overhead aircraft or a toddler losing his dummy was the most thrilling part of my day. Some days I wished I could be with them, sing with them, talk with them, run with them. But I’d be chopped down to reality when my roots held me down, like always. Then I’d have to remind myself the pain of their ways, the sorrow and hatred that comes with the passion and delight, and I knew it wasn’t worth it. But I suppose that’s life. Or, my life. Dull. I suppose I served a purpose, but I’m not exactly sure what. But I’m sure I helped. That’s all I really wanted to do, help.
Yet on that day, that one day when I saw them, it changed everything. He was sitting on the wooden bench under the willow trees, scribbling in a leather-bound journal, a black weathered case by his side; she was pushing a young boy, most likely a nephew, on the old swings about fifteen meters away. The little brat kept shouting “Higher, higher!” I never liked children.
They hadn’t noticed each other yet, but I knew it was coming. And I knew where it would end.
For some reason he got up, to get a drink from the water fountain I believe, and that’s when he saw her. I knew it; I saw it in his eyes because I’d been watching for quite a while. I’d been waiting. He held the glance longer than one normally would. I suppose she could sense someone watching her, and she returned his glimpse. I saw it in her eyes; I know I did. No one could convince me otherwise, I’d seen the look many times before, and I knew what it meant. He walked over to her and the brat, introducing himself. The journal was still in his hand, and I knew she was as curious about it as I was. They shook hands, a smile on his face, a sweetness on hers.
“Higher, HIGHER!”
I wanted to kick him.
The man gestured an offer and started pushing the brat on the swing. The woman took a step back, her knee-length skirt swishing.
He pushed for a while more, and they both chatted until the gruesome child spotted the ice cream truck and jumped off the swing. He hurled himself at it, getting lost in the crowd of children practically mauling the ice cream man. She gave him a small smile and ran after him. He watched her walk away. I knew it wouldn’t be the last time he would.

•

I waited. I waited for her to come back; so did he. She did. She came back with the little ugly thing several times. Some days their paths would cross; other times they’d miss each other by an hour or two. But when they both happened to be there they chatted, they chased the little brat on the playground. They got more and more acquainted. It was exciting for me, more exciting than anything else that happened in that park. People fell in love there and children grew up there, but people fell out of love there and children left home, never to come back there; so this was quite the thrill for me. Even if it didn’t last I enjoyed the entertainment. But I knew it would last. I watched him as he came back quite often over the gap of the seasons. The sun shone longer and the ice cream truck started passing through more and more often. Children bombarded the playground more every day, only running home when the sun sat low in the sky and mothers called them home for supper, but he was usually there till the sun barely peeked over the rooftops. I’d see him with his black case, sitting in the same bench. Sometimes he’d open it and accompany the brass instrument in filling the park with soft music. The children would slowly gravitate towards him, captivated by the flawless tunes that dripped from the trumpet, a pied piper of sorts. Sometimes he’d leave it closed; those were the days he seemed more frustrated. Those were the days she didn’t come.
When the leaves started turning, their friendship began to grow into love, and a new housing development started construction down the block where the fields started. More often the kids would stand by the temporary fences with their noses pushed against the cold wire, captivated by the large machinery and the ideas of new neighbors. The construction would get quite loud around midday, and that’s when they usually met on the bench. She still brought the brat with her sometimes, but more than often she’d be alone. I figured they liked it that way.
They met about twice a week from what I saw. Sometimes they’d take long walks with clasped hands down the creek, other times they would have a picnic under my branches. I always liked that because I’d hear their conversation. They talked about everything that mattered to them. There were no secrets under my shade. With a large blanket spread out and a basket to fill their stomachs, he’d play her a song or two. She’d always ask for just one more. Even as the weather grew chilly, they’d meet there. I seldom knew what they were talking about, but I watched and I could guess. Sometimes they fought ‘till sundown. He’d try to kiss her on the cheek, but stubbornness on her part won. She’d walk away angry, and several times I’d worried so that they were done. But a few night and days later they’d be swinging on the playset with such glee that never suggested bickering. Sometimes they just sat on the jungle gym pointing at oddly shaped clouds. Sometimes they did nothing. Around the time when you could see your breath when you spoke, she came bringing a somber expression. He knew as well as I did that she was upset. I watched as he held her hands tightly, reassuring his warmth. Her eyes filled with liquid and her mouth moved rapidly, explaining something the loud, winter winds and construction site drowned out. She sobbed in his arms for awhile, and he walked her home. Only days later did I overhear two elder ladies speaking about what I assumed was the cause of her tears.
“Poor thing- I heard he died on impact. Cars really should be outlawed.”
“Yes. Oh my, that dear family, such a sad thing when parents outlive their children, yes. And such a young one, too. Wasn’t he only nine years old?”
“I heard eight.”
Never again did I see the little brat.
It was awhile before they came back, nearly a month. She fidgeted with the thick wool gloves in her pockets, and he took them from her. They stood near the swings as he opened the hard black case. He played a soft tune, no more than a minute long, then they left.
The next time I saw them there was about a week later. Her hair was a different color and they didn’t say much. They had a hot chocolate picnic under my branches, and he played two songs. She didn’t ask for anymore.
Over the next few months they begun meeting less and less; and when they did it was cold and forced. He tried to get her to talk with him like she used to. She didn’t. I didn’t understand why; I didn’t understand why she couldn’t just grieve and move on. I wanted thing to be like they were, when they were carefree and happy, when she smiled.
I didn’t learn but a month later that she was babysitting the child when the car hit the him. She didn't know what to do with herself. He tried to help her; he really did, but I suppose sometimes they just need to cry and bear the pain for a while.

•

It was different now, I could tell. She’d been smiling for a while; she enjoyed things again. Flowers were budding and folks started wearing sunglasses. The children were back from the hiatus a nasty blizzard brought. There was almost always a crowd of kids sitting under the little shade I offered when he was playing his music. At first I didn’t mind, but then the children would get antsy and start pulling on my branches, so I made sure to drop acorns on the especially bothersome ones.
They spent most weekends there talking again; this pleased me at first. I thought it would be enjoyable to listen in on their regular talks, but time soon shot that theory. I enjoyed when they talked about their dreams and fears and hopes, but then they’d speak of monkeys and how they liked their music, which didn’t make any kind of sense to me, so I guess I hadn’t been missing out on much.

•

The cold had come and gone once more. It was spring again. They were still happy, and though it had been a rather uneventful year, I didn’t mind. I appreciated their constant company. So many others had come and gone, but not them. They laughed a lot, though I’m not sure what at. She wore a smile often; it matched the sparkly ring on her finger. His was wrapped in a bandage from some sort of an accident, so he hadn’t played his instrument in quite a while. She tried for him though, but the children made sure to stay far away from the loud sounds that came from it. She constantly glanced at her ring and smiled. There was a tiny diamond in the middle of a thin, silver band. The diamond was barely detectable, but I don’t think she noticed.

•

She was alone. I don’t think I’d ever seen her alone. From afar her eyes matched the day they did when her nephew died. But it was worse; I could tell it was worse. Her eyes weren’t full of tears of red from weeping; they were just empty. She was empty. She sat under me for a bit. I tried not to ruffle my leaves for her sake, but it was considerably windy that day. I had gotten used to seeing her wear two rings; I had gotten used to her round stomach that seemed to get larger every time they came for a walk by the creek. I hadn’t gotten used to seeing her like this. Whenever she was sad, whenever she cried, he was usually here with her. They’d cry together or just be. I hadn’t known that her stomach wouldn’t be getting any larger, or that the baby they talked and smiled about under the trees wouldn’t come.

•

They never forgot about her. They never let each other forget. They talked about her when the new child was born; they talked about her when the second and third came. They let their children know they were a family of six; they pointed at the heavens to indicate where their older sister was. They had many picnics. His finger never quite healed, so the music wasn’t as beautiful. But the eldest had a knack for it, so she took the place of drawing in onlookers with the melodies of an old trumpet.
The kids grew up. The folks grew old. I grew branches and acorns.

•

“Mama, why do they have to cut ‘er down?”
“Struck by lightning, doll. It’s just not safe anymore.”

•

So many times I’d hear people say things like that.
“It’s a shame; I remember that tree since I was this high.”
“But it’s so pretty- Who in their right mind would wanna chop it down?”
“Well, it had to come down eventually...”
“That’s the government for ya.”
And my favorite.
“I dunno, it’s just so sad. A tree full of memories- gone.”
I never understood why some of them were so sad; I’d never done anything for them; they’d never done anything for me. Something better would grow there, in my spot, I knew. Something more beautiful, something that would make them forget I was even there. New memories would be made, and I would be lost in old photographs and forgotten thoughts.

•

Somewhere an old couple sits on an old tree trunk, reminiscing about days past and days to come. Somewhere hearts cross, then wander away again. Somewhere old wounds never heal; somewhere bitterness lurks. Somewhere grandchildren run amuck, unaware of history’s footprints. Somewhere gravestones are the only ones strong enough to separate the strongest of holds. Somewhere trees grow and humans die. Somewhere love is lost and love is found.
Somewhere a gas station sits where a tree used to. Somewhere the most beautiful of memories, young and old, only last in the grave.