The Tree That Said Goobye

The Tree that Said Goodbye



He stood there for years, in the corner, behind the hedge and in front of the grass. No one in the neighborhood could recall when exactly he had been planted or what kind of tree he was. Its leaves were nondescript and no one had bothered to mark him when it had been planted by a gardener since forgotten.

And as he stood, he watched. People had come and gone in the building in whose front garden he had been planted. There was a tall palm tree towering over him that drew most of the attention and so our tree, which, incidentally, was an almond tree, unassuming as he was, observed.

When he was young, as young as the building itself, he'd been curious about people. Trees and people go a long way and he had even been glad to be a city tree, where life was exciting. But now, after a life of seeing people come and go, with their dogs and cats and kids, he was no longer curious. There wasn't a dog he would welcome the marking of the territory. Life is boring, then you become firewood.

Then came Zoe. Not alone, of course, but for all he cared, she was alone. She must have been six or seven when she passed by him for the first time, with her arms full of toys, her toothless grin and the dark blond halo that was her hair.

From that moment, the tree stopped watching with bored eyes a world that was in constant motion but never changed. He took a renewed interest in the comings and goings of the people in the building, especially when Zoe's giggle could be heard from across the glass door that barred the entrance, three steps up from the ground.

He soon learned that Zoe's father, a serious looking man with receding hair and a fondness for khaki pants, worked for a "hitech" company, that her mother was a teacher and that her brother was a pest. Their dog, "Pavlov", a mongrel if he ever saw one, gave him the courtesy of a good sniff and a welcoming pee, but had not bothered him much afterwards, but the clumsiness of Ariel (Zoe's older brother) had, and the many balls that had landed in his branches had been usually followed by a savage shaking or rummaging between his bruised branches with various objects. Even the cats had stopped sleeping on its branches, which was a shame because the crook of his trunk and main branch was a perfect spot for a cat to curl up.

Zoe liked the outdoors and he watched her change from a giggly, toothless girl into an awkward teen and eventually a woman. Her favorite spot for playing was by the tall palm tree, affording him a good view of her games, games he had seen a thousand times being played by other kids, but which had never interested him as much as hers did. The dolls, the prams, the tea parties, he watched them all with an amused look that contrasted with his grimness before she came. When she played with other children, she was always the "queen", the "princess" just plain leader. And she never had to fight for it, it was always granted gracefully by the other kids.

He did not know the reasons why he took such a fancy to that particular girl. Perhaps it was her way of looking at the world, as if it was such a wonderful place and what an adventure she was having. She was never bitchy or haughty when she played with the other kids in the garden. Other trees were saying the same thing and the palm tree that had the best firsthand knowledge of her activities swore by her.

The almond tree was a loner. Apart from the palm tree, all other trees in the vicinity were fruitless. They were the pretty boys of the tree world. He, a fruit tree, well, potentially a fruit tree, resented being reduced to a mere ornament, and that was the main reason why he had never bothered to bloom. What for?

Zoe started dating and he followed her movements in and out of the building, watching the parades of suitors, in their fancy cars and motor bikes; some even on bicycles and others afoot. Zoe had a way with people but boys in particular fell in droves in front of her. He knew she was in school, and not just by the pretty dress and bag pack he noticed on her way to the bus. A gaggle of friends followed her home now, all giggles and repressed laughter, and the palm tree was now the scene of her love plays, much as she had done when she was a little girl. Now the grass at the feet of the big palm was used for intertwined bodies and meetings of lips. She still giggled, but this one had a different connotation.

Being a tree in human environment as intensive as a modern city, made him often wish the setting was different. It would have been nicer if he lived in Zoe's garden rather than the building's, but he was a tree and trees stayed where they were planted. Besides, the reverse of the medal was that his limbs were not being chopped for firewood or lumber. He was therefore content to watch Zoe grow. Her blonde halo had darkened with age and reminded him the dark honey his friends, the bees, made. She had turned into what in human taste was considered beautiful. She still came at odd times and looked at him with these eyes that reminded him of a stormy sky, and he wondered what kind of thoughts were passing through her mind when she looked at him this way. The eyes seemed to ponder.

The years were passing by. His interest in Zoë had not waned. He felt the sap stir in his branches every time she stepped out of the door and as often from cars. Then the cortege of cars stopped and became just one: a small two-sitter. He watched with interest how at first the boy – he had learned the name later – was escorting Zoe to the stair, exchanging quick kisses before a hasty departure; as if the pain of parting with her was too excruciating and the sooner he left the place the better.

The next meeting, they lingered more under the light of the entrance, the kisses were longer, less furtive, and the hands were involved. It wasn't long before in summer nights they would alight from the little two-sitter and stroll on the grass, she often barefoot, her shoes slung over her shoulder and her teeth gleaming in the darkness, he, Liam, his protecting arm around her shoulders, walking towards the palm tree and lay on the cool grass.

Sometimes, when the wind was right he could hear their whispered giggles and floating words that spoke of mutual devotion. He was ambivalent about her, because it was the human way of leaving the nest once one could fly on one's own wings, and Zoe was a capable human, even a tree could see that. When he saw her leave the house with a funny hat (square with a tassel!) on her head and a cape around her shoulders, he sensed that she just had made a big step in life. It was strange to think of steps for a tree that hasn’t moved an inch in over thirty years.

When she left for higher education and her visits home became more scarce – it took three whole rings before she returned home, he sank again into his brooding thoughts, wishing he had not been a tree altogether. A bird, a bee, even a dog would have been better. He often looked with contempt at his neighbor, the palm tree, whose fruit, the golden date, was now food for the crows. That tree, that once ruled the desert, was now an eye candy for stupid people who did not have the decency to leave well enough alone. He himself, a glorious but sterile tree, planted in the wrong soil, overshadowed by a giant palm, was useless. There were times when trees were free and grew where they wanted. They had ruled the planet, providing shelter, heat and food for many species, and now he was here, in a place that could have been anywhere. There had been a time, so the tree lore said, when humans worshipped trees. How the mighty have fallen, he reflected sadly, when the subjects of worship of yore became subjects of daily torture. The systematic destruction of trees for human use was akin to a giant slaughterhouse. Paper, timber, firewood, were all words justifying the systematic genocide of his species, the reason trees were being daily sacrificed instead of being sacrificed to. Shade, shelter for animals were nothing against the axe that felled many of his peers.

He was in this dark mood when a police car, lights flashing in the night, stopped by the building and two officers rushed past him, coming shortly back followed by Ariel, his face all scrunched up. The next day Zoë appeared. Although she had lost none of her beauty, as much as the tree could ascertain, she was pale, withdrawn and teary.

The tree could guess what was happening. When police cars and teary people showed up together, it was a tragedy. Then he recalled that Zoë's parents had left the previous day in the fully loaded company car. The tree had never given much attention to Zoë's family and now wished he had. Breaking a long habit, he asked around what was going on.

"You won't like it," said the palm tree, obviously unaware of the almond's contempt towards him. "Zoë's parents were killed in a car crash yesterday."

The tree knew about death. It hadn't been the first time death struck one of the building's dwellers. There had been Dr. Levine, who had a smile as bright as Zoë's, who had collapsed in front of him, there, just over the hedge; there had been the little boy in the wheelchair, for whom the building's association had built a ramp to get access; there had been old Mrs. Stark who died peacefully in bed. All had attracted the same crowd of long faced people, in dark clothes and moods.

This time was not different. Zoe appeared in a black dress and her honey colored hair was covered in a black cloth. Her puffy eyes were hidden behind dark glasses and only Liam's supporting arm held her straight. Ariel, the brother, was weeping silently, and for the first time the tree noticed the resemblance between the siblings.

He pondered about the future. After Dr. Levine had died, his family left the building and another one moved in; after the little boy's death, his family moved out; and after Mrs. Stark's death, no one left but someone moved in. That was the way of the world for species that had legs to move. No roots, he thought sarcastically. Would Zoë disappear from his life again? The last three rings had not been easy for him.

The cortege left the building with a wake of mourning people following and it wasn't until later that day that they returned. They filed into the building and later in the evening, the tree watched as they left in small hushed groups, whispering among themselves, leaving Zoë and Ariel to their grief.

Days and months passed, and Zoë was still there. One spring morning - the crocuses had started blooming; he saw her smiling for the first time since her parent's death. Her step was springier and her hair seemed to float

Zoe was living alone now. Sometimes she'd come home with a friend, usually a small woman with dark hair and complexion who stayed a couple of hours then left. There was also a skinny girl with braids that came and left, and Liam had disappeared from view.

The trees around him were whispering that Zoë had not recovered from her parent's death and that Ariel had left to marry far away. The tree pondered. Her demeanor hadn't been the one of a stricken daughter. Dr. Levine's daughter, when she had been stricken, had cried her eyes out.

When he saw her next, Zoe was on the phone, laughing, sauntering past the hedge, her hair shimmering in the morning sun. The tree felt good seeing Zoë happy. A hummingbird was doing its aerial acrobatics and bees were buzzing about. For the first time in a long time, he was happy to be a tree. Zoe was happy and all was fine in the world.

Two weeks later Zoë appeared with a bicycle which she chained to the metal rack outside the building. She was wearing tight fitting nylon and the cutest pink helmet, and even an old tree like him could see a picture of beauty and health. The day before, she had given him one of her enigmatic looks, as if asking him the meaning of life.

Then another bike appeared, a white machine ridden by a young man with a mop of red hair and the bluest eyes you could imagine. The tree had heard enough stories, told by thousands of parents and kids at the feet of the palm tree, not to recognize a young knight on a white horse when he saw one.

For it was love. When he compared the glint in her eyes when she flew to her knight's, her arms outstretched and her smile eclipsing the sun, to her meetings with Liam, he could not avoid the conclusion that this was a different thing. They rode almost every day, and in the evenings he would often come, sometimes staying over, other times both of them going out, only to return much later.

One day, and the summer was at its fiercest heat, when trees and plants yearned for the daily ration of water the - now automatic – sprinklers provided, a van stopped next to the building and started unloading crates and cables and boxes. Zoe met them and showed them the way. And in her tight jeans and checked shirt, her hair in a pony tail, she attracted the men's stares.

A gardener was busy slicing unruly weeds - a young, unfamiliar face, and one in the dozens if not the hundreds that had served the small garden over the years. He knew that some trees had gardeners for life, people who begat other people to tend to them, generation after generation, until those trees returned their atoms. Trees in farms, trees in oases, productive trees that had respect, he thought longingly. Ah, to be an olive tree in some warm place, with a view of fields and farms. But as much as he tried, the tree could not really imagine living elsewhere. It was only images that every tree knew.

Eventually the van left. That evening people came in, wearing their best outfits – there was a lot of black and women wore high heels – in couples and singles and groups. The name "Zoe" was flying about and it was the general consensus among the neighboring trees and bushes that there was a "bomb" of a party. Zoe had turned twenty five.

White Knight – his name was Ethan, the tree had heard Zoë more than once whisper his name on the phone – appeared, wearing a short sleeved shirt and long slacks and carrying a bunch of flowers in his tanned hands.

That night, while the party boomed on the top floor, the tree brooded. He felt that Zoe's happiness was a harbinger of things to come. As expert on the weather as any tree, he could not see where the wind was blowing. Was she staying? Was she going? Everything was possible. Many a girl had left the building, only to return a couple of rings later for a visit with a baby in their arms. Would Zoë follow the path? White Knight could be the one, he felt it.

Zoe didn't leave. Neither did Ethan.

The party lasted long into the night and culminated in a modest display of fireworks. Twenty six rockets shot for the stars, one for each year and an extra one for next year. The tree watched the trails of fire zigzagging in the night sky and he knew Zoë was happy.

The next day, the buzz around the trees said that what had started as a birthday party had ended in an engagement party as Ethan had proposed to Zoë just after the fireworks. A poetic hedge even added that the stone he'd given her, reflecting in her eyes, was brighter than the display of fireworks.

The tree entered a waiting mode. He knew something was bound to happen, but he knew not what. Women married and left their home. That was human tradition.

"Not so," said a newly planted cypress, "she owns the place."

And indeed she did. If trees could giggle, the tree would have giggled now. But what tree in front of a building hasn’t seen enough of landlord-tenant scenes, not to grasp the concept of ownership. Without comprehending the legal ramifications, he knew that she could stay if she wanted as she was an owner.

Reality seemed to prove the cypress' point as Ethan made her home his. The tree would see him leave in the morning, mounted on his white bike and disappear at the next corner; return every evening and park the bike next to Zoe's. They went out at night and the tree could see that long after they returned, the light shone bright in her – their – bedroom.

By late fall, when the palm tree had spread its golden fruits on the yellowing grass and other trees shed their leaves, a horse drawn carriage entered the street and stopped next to the tree's building. And through the glass door he saw Zoe, wearing all white, with a veil covering her hair and two maids behind her. Ariel and his wife were there and Zoe and her maids climbed into the open carriage. The others followed by car.

Zoe didn’t return for a month, and when she did, she was tanned and looking glorious. Ethan was with her, looking proprietarily at the building. It's not that the tree didn’t like Ethan; it was more that Ethan wasn’t Zoë. Now they'd traded their bikes for a street car, a tiny thing easy to maneuver in a congested city, and they left together in the morning, while Zoë returned early in the afternoon. On warm days, she would bring a blanket and lean against the palm tree and read. The almond tree could see her hair spilling from the elastic band shimmering in the afternoon sun, dangling from her shoulder when she bent over, concentrated in her reading.

Winter came with it the rains and winds and he hardly saw Zoe or Ethan, except when they rushed under umbrellas to their car across the street. But these glimpses were enough. Life seemed to return to a familiar pattern, like before Zoë had left.

It lasted for another year. Zoe and Ethan were inseparable. The left together every morning and went out most nights. Friends came and left and often he could see the lights blazing on the top floor, when she gave a party on the large verandah.

One day, as she returned from the grocery store, her arms were laden with plastic bags brimming with groceries, and as she passed by him across the hedge, he saw something unsettling. Her stomach was bulging. Of course, had he bothered to listen to the young cypress, a fount of useless information, he would have known that Zoë was expecting a child.

A child! The tree could not believe that the skinny girl, her arms hugging her toys that had appeared in his life twenty odd rings ago was now expecting a child of her own. A boy or a girl? The tree preferred girls as a rule, but that was Zoe. He could not decide which he preferred.

Her pregnancy was spectacular. She shone all throughout it as she was carrying the messiah in her bulging belly that did not diminish an ounce of her regal composure. Her white smile was like a balm for his old branches and her expectancy made it all the brighter.

It was a girl. Amalia.

He saw Zoë and Amalia every day. First prams then push chairs, then tricycles. Mother and daughter would sit by the palm tree and play. Zoe would sing to her or tell her stories the tree had heard thousands of times before but when it came to Zoë or her daughter, he had never enough. Contrary to his neutral feelings towards Ethan - who often joined them on the grass, the tree felt a deep attachment to Amalia, just like he had for her mother all those years ago

The child was going to preschool now, and she talked with her mother or father when, small hand tucked in big hand, they would leave the building, her small voice piping like the trill of a bird.

The cypress, now fully grown and looking important, often talked about the almond's feeling for those humans. The almond never replied, but the questions were pertinent. He didn’t have any more an answer than the cypress did, but the questions still gnawed at him. If a tree could shrug, he would have, for the answers to those questions were elusive.

But even if he didn’t know the reason why, he was happy.

And then Zoë and Ethan started showing up with strange people, escorting them in and out and talking excitedly on the pavement.

Know-it-all cypress delivered the news: "She is moving out," he said laconically.

The shock was terrible. It had been rings since he thought of the future. Zoe was living in the building and raising her child, so there was nothing to fear, but this! This move was as devastating as a lightning strike, a fate he would have preferred for himself.

Eventually, the flat was sold and soon after boxes and furniture started leaving the house. Friends came and helped themselves, and finally a big van came and movers started carting furniture from the apartment into the van. Spring was in the air, but for the almond tree, if was like winter forever.

Next morning the van came again and on their second pass, the movers emptied the apartment. Zoe was watching them with a wary eye. These were her last moments in the house she had grown up in and had returned to upon the demise of her parents. Most of her memories were set within these walls. Amalia, her eyes wide open in wonder explored the empty shell that had been her house.

She tugged at her mother's sleeve. "Come on, Mummy, come on, let's go."

In the elevator they fidgeted in silence until its doors swished silently and let them out. While Zoe, in a gesture that was completely automatic, checked the mailbox, Amalia ran out to the garden. Zoe tucked the mail in her bag and looked around the lobby for the last time. , In front of that pillar she had been kissed for the first time, she thought wistfully.

"Mummy, Mummy, come look! Come look!" the voice sounded wondrous, rather than afraid or panicked.

She opened the door that led to the small garden. Amalia was standing, her head half raised, her doll forgotten and trailing on the ground, her finger pointing up. "Look Mummy! The tree is full of flowers!"

Zoe looked at the old almond tree in full bloom. She had often noticed that it had never flowered, not in the twenty years she had lived here, and now it was covered in small white flowers.

She took the three steps down, took her daughter by the hand and bent on one knee. "That's right, honey. The tree is saying good bye."