The Tree Wept
It was the day the tree wept.
The day I knew it was finally over.
Maybe things would be better. Maybe worse.
I always imagined the tree had a face. The way the branches and leaves were arranged just so. In the shadows of the branches I could see eyes, nose, mouth. If the wind blew a certain way the tree would smile. Sometimes it would frown.
It watched me all the time. It was outside my window, across a field. It watched me write in my diary night after night. It watched me cry, although it never cried. Until.
It watched me watch it as I tried to think of other things when the man came into my room, when I said daddy why do you do this.
It watched the baby being torn from my private place. The baby with no eyes. It watched as daddy twisted the baby’s head and said it’s better this way, now go clean yourself up, I got something to do.
It watched with no expression as daddy buried the baby under its roots. Then it started to weep. First two little leaves from its eyes. Then little streams of leaves that looked like tears. Tears that blew away with the wind.
It cried until it had no face.
For a long time it stood there barren.
And then the men with the bulldozers came to knock it over.
And then the men with the hard faces came to take my daddy away.