My Tree

My Tree

G.H. Goins

I climbed a tree today. My favorite tree. The same tree that was good forty-three years ago is the same tree that is good today. My faithful tree. When I was young, my Pawpaw passed. I climbed my tree. My faithful tree. When I was young, sorrow was not far from me. Neither was my faithful tree. I found escape there. I found rest. I found peace. The cool breeze on my face, the fading sun painting the sky, giving color to my glowing skin. Bathed in light. Washed in warmth, despite the bite of the wind. The tree was my refuge. My faithful friend. My faithful tree.

Every year, autumn came, and my tree would lose its leaves. As days grew shorter, the wind blowing colder, my tree was lost to me. The fire began to call. Its warmth beckoned me. The tree felt far, though it only stood just outside my door. 

Autumn smoothly transitioned to winter, as snow whitewashed the world like a bed-sheet. I briefly thought of the tree, a fleeting thought, but a thought all the same. I thought of the tree.  I thought of those sunsets, those orange evenings. The refuge the tree was for me. The tree.  Ah, but the fire gave me warmth. The fire gave me my orange light. As the thought of the tree left my mind, the desire for my fire burned in my heart. 

But then one morning, my fire died. 

All that remained was a bed of ash. Cold, dead ash. The fire was far from me. The fire was dead. It left me cold and longing for warmth. Worry overtook me. 

And then I thought of the tree. It never died. It never left. It was always there, just outside my doorstep. Standing tall, standing firm. The tree was always a refuge to me. I stepped out my door and swung up into the tree. My fingers felt as though the frost on the limbs would snap my fingers right off my hand, but I climbed on. As I neared the top, to my favorite nook of my favorite tree, the sunlight began to break throught the wintry clouds. I shivered. 

But I rested.

I rested in my favorite nook of my favorite tree. Five minutes passed and I noticed something. Everything the light touched began to glisten, as though sweating. The light of the sun was melting the frost, thawing what once was frozen. Bringing to life what the night had taken. My skin soaked in the light, my body receiving warmth from the sun that rose yet again. The same sun that rose yesterday is the same sun that rose today. The same tree that was good in the summer is the same tree that is good in the winter. The tree remained. The tree continued to stand firm. It continued to be my refuge. My safe place. My hiding place. My tree. My favorite tree.

      My faithful tree.

My Tree by G.H. Goins