on WINDY DAYS
HANNAH CARLSON
The tree hadn’t always known that she was a tree. After all, how many of us know exactly what we are the moment we are created and brought into this world? At that moment, it feels like we could be anything, if only we knew what. So the tree hadn’t known, but she would soon. As she grew stronger each day, she would hear stories from all of her elders, and she would learn.
Of all of the stories the tree learned, the ones she liked best were of herself. There is mystery in being the source of the story but not being able to tell it, and so the tree was naturally curious. She looked up to all of her elders, asking them in the language that trees have about the day she was born. In her mind, it happened on a perfectly sunny day when the sun’s beams would land so gently on all of their leaves. On those days, she loved just breathing in the surrounding air, big, greedy breaths of it. Sunny days were her favorite because they cast the forest in the most perfect shade of green.
But that is not the answer she got.
You were born on a windy day, one tree says. She feels disappointed. Windy days weren’t awful, but they weren’t as nice as sunny days. On windy days, she had to bend and sway to match the breeze or else get snapped in half. The older trees did their best to protect her, but her little trunk and branches were still fragile. A bright, windy day. I remember the kites.
The little tree had never seen kites before. Her elders, brothers and sisters, were all so much taller than she, and they blocked her view of the most perfect patches of sky. As hard as she tried, she could not stretch herself as tall as they were.
Don’t frown, little one, an elder coos. Windy days can be some of the best. That is when we can talk to our friends far away.
She nods, though she doesn’t have any faraway friends. Most of her friends were the birds or squirrels that might frequent her branches. Some pecked at her bark, but most found safety and comfort in her branches. And she found safety and comfort in them, too. She’d already learned to tell the seasons not only by the falling of her leaves but also by the animals that came about.
What does it look like away from home? the little tree sometimes wonders. She’s not allowed to venture outside of the forest, her roots firmly in place where she was born. She used to complain about this when she was younger, but she’s grown comfortable with this place that’s called home. She can’t imagine being a bird, always flitting around, having to move when the weather gets cold.
Many different things, the trees reply. Other animals, other creatures, many languages. She hears only of these other things in whispers when they think she’s gone to sleep. They say she is too young to know of the other things, too young until she can see them for herself. If only they would let her. She’s been around for longer than some humans have, and they still treat her like a child.
In some places, they chop us down and imprint their histories onto us, she heard one say. She’d shaken in horror all night, constantly on guard for something with a shiny blade. She’d also heard stories of forests being wiped out, and the elders spoke of murder and hatred in hushed whispers. These things always made her shiver, even after the stars had gone to sleep.
What am I to be when I grow up? was the question that filled her with the most worry, though. Some trees never seemed to get old. They just kept growing, their roots stretching out until it seemed like they had touched every corner of the earth. Others died young, taken away for selfish reasons or natural disaster. The little tree had learned when to dig her roots in, when to spread her leaves, when to conserve water. You never knew what was coming, so you had to be prepared.
A tree, silly, one elder replies to her question. What else would you be?
For a moment, the little tree feels reprimanded. Of course, she’d be a tree. She couldn’t imagine being anything else. But how would she grow up? Where would she end up? She’d heard of trees traveling the world, taking down histories, becoming history. In some circles, it was revered if you got cut down, became something important. In others, they feared losing a relative.
I want to see the world, she’d responded. It wasn’t quite an answer, but it felt right. She wanted to feel the dirt between her roots, open her leaves up to the sky. The summer sun had always felt so good, and it made good memories when she shivered from the snow. She wanted to hear children laugh as they climbed her trunk or decorated her branches. She wanted to pass on the stories of her own life someday.
But she was still young. So someday wasn’t today. But she hoped that it would come, and it would be windy.