Trees, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Spit in the Face of Death

“A tree is a perennial woody plant. It is most often defined as a woody plant that has many secondary branches supported clear of the ground on a single main stem or trunk with clear apical dominance. A minimum height specification at maturity is cited by some authors, varying from 3 m to 6 m; some authors set a minimum of 10 cm trunk diameter (30 cm girth). Woody plants that do not meet these definitions by having multiple stems and/or small size are called shrubs. Compared with most other plants, trees are long-lived, some reaching several thousand years old and growing to up to 115 m (379 ft) high.”

Have you ever heard a description of trees that captures their beauty less? It does absolutely no justice to their majesty, their glory, their power. The beauty and terror they inspire.

Every day, I look outside and see a stretch of well-mown grass, a ring of thistle and weeds and, beyond that, nothing but trees, bifurcated by a gravel driveway. Every day, I look out for him and I never know if I’m going to find him. He switches place with trees, you see. Or maybe he possesses them and turns them into his body for as long as it suits him. It’s hard to tell, really. Maybe he should be called the Walking Tree instead of the Tree Walker.

It’s a fascinating and terrifying power. I could spend hours looking out at those trees, looking for his slender frame, and then, when I finally think I’ve found him, I look closer and can’t tell whether it was just a tree that I mistook for him. It’s gotten to the point where I’ve memorised all the trees that look like him and tend to look over them, but maybe he knows that and only pretends to be those ones now. I haven’t seen him since the day I lost my wife and my legs. That was just a hallucination in my room, I’m sure of it. I haven’t seen him in 3 years, 11 months, 9 days.

But he probably sees me every day. So I like to wave at him now and then. Just to let him know that, in spite of all his efforts, I’m still living, that I’m still alive. He hasn’t killed me yet and every day, I rub it in his face.

Like this.

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2 comments on “Trees, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Spit in the Face of Death

  1. Kiera says:

    Now THERE is a man I can respect. I much prefer my Marcus like this than as the self-pitying wreck you were yesterday.

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