The Branch

Once upon a time there was a branch.

He was one of thousands on the old oak tree. But he wasn't like the rest somehow he was different.

He didn't start out a branch.
He once was nothing well, nothing the naked eye could see.

He was just a random occurrence on the side of the old oak and that was the only thing he had in common with the rest of the branches.

He was then a small splinter, the beginning of a leaf that never turned green.

It was then he discovered life, to breath, to feel warmth like the kiss of the sun against the bubbles and notches of his growing existence.

But as the spring went and summer arrived, he still had yet to sprout a single leaf.

Why? He asked, as if his fellow branches might have the answer. But why would they and how could they when they are stretching so far past him? So fast that you could hear the creek of the bark as fibers and foliage devour the life blowing in the July breeze.

He was bare. A branch without a leaf. No better than the twigs laying haphazardly on the ground as Autumn approaches.

Hot breezes turned into howling winds as October crept in. A chatty family of squirrels moved into the bottom of the old oak and their fluffy tufted tails brushed by his barron branch as the frantically searched for prewinter spoils.

The rest of the branches, exhausted from the bright summer days basking in the warm sun, began to discard their lovely leafs one by one each cascading like crimson confetti.

And while every branch around him grew in a slender sleek body and began to incubate themselves as the air grew colder and darker, he grew broad and wide with large eyes, nooks, crannies and notches. His bark was thick and rippled which made him feel even more peculiar and more abnormal than ever.

How can I belong to such a tree? Such a family? I've grown into something else, something like no other branch can understand or feel.

Winter snow collects on his twisted body. But the bitter winter air did more than make him cold on the outside, he felt it creep into his pores, sink into the cracks and permiate deep inside. The sap that once coursed through his strong green veins grew thick and viscous, slowing down his ability to live and to feel. And soon, he fell asleep.

His slumber was heavy, so heavy he couldn't even hear the icicles that once hung off his body crack and fall to the snowy ground.

And in his sleep he had dreams. A branch that could dream? You may scoff or chuckle at the thought, but it's said all living things aspire and dream. And this branch was no different.

What did he dream about? He dreamt about blue skies and marshmallow clouds drifting by. He sees that squirrel family growing up and playing on his outstretched arm covered in bright green leaves instead of the gnarly claw like twigs that hang off of him now.

What if I could bare fruit? Wouldn't that be delightful? And visions of heavenly apples and plump pears appearing magically on his limbs like sweet tear drops of red and yellow. The thought of it made his veins pulse again and hope warmed his riggid  skin.

But it was then he came to realize the heat was not generated from just the whimsical dreams of fruit and leafs. It was actually the trickling water dripping down his burly body, the true sign of spring. The sign that it is time to be awake once more. A reawakening of this old oak.

As he stretched himself this spring dawn, a new sensation envelops his being. Something had changed while he slept all those months.

His veins seemed to surge with a new strength. His tough bark and all the eyes and notches felt like they had new life. It was an inner force that revived him with a sense of pride.

The other branches also stretched and began to look speckled with green buds. Life was no different for them; nothing new to hope for other than a new year with a new season.

However, even though he felt so rejuvenated no leafs, not even a suggestion of green life appeared. A happiness still lived in him while he continued to grow on the old oak. And with every year he woke up from the winter slumber to feel more powerful than the year before.

20 years had passed and there he was, the branch who bore no leaf, no fruit, no seed. 20 years is a long time to think and even though the optimism of life never left him, he couldn't help but feel that there was a higher purpose or possibly punishment for a lifetime of being barron.

On the 21st spring a calm acceptance washed over him in the April rains. This is it, he whispered to himself, I am ready to get on with this lonesome life! So as the rain dried up, so did his veins, one by one.

It was then when he felt the lash of something thick and brawny against his tired flesh.

Then came a tug and a pull. His body couldn't calculate what was happening but through sheer instinct his veins began to pump again.

"Tie it tight, daddy!" a tiny voice remarks from below, as a human flings the other end of his brown rope over his rippled body. At the bottom of the rope looks like wood, he thought. Another piece of another tree from many lives ago.

The squared off piece dangled there as the spring wind gently pushed the rope around.

Then the sound of the little human, an odd creature with smooth olive oil skin ran with a squeal towards the branch. And with clumsy effort and the assistance of the larger human she sat on the squared up fallen comrade.

Her weight was not at all a hard burden to bear for the strapping branch. But he struggled to grow used to the feeling of something hanging off his body. After 21 years wishing for life to grow from within, he ended up with a new life attaching itself upon him. An adopted life, but his to take care of nonetheless.

The little human looked up at his burly rugged body. The branch watched down at her, year after year. Watched her play, sing and read her books, all the while she was unaware of the body looking over her.

He was the branch, the one who bore something more than a leaf, he bore a lifetime of memories for that little human who grew to a lovely woman.

- Trishanna Persaud