Every morning, as I walked my son to school, my eyes would be drawn to a towering tree along our path. I didn’t know its name, but it had stood there for generations. Its branches stretched wide, offering shade to passers-by and shelter to countless birds. It was alive, bustling with stories that only the wind and the birds could understand.
The tree stood tall; its surroundings, however, were a mess. Trash piled up around its trunk, and a bad smell lingered in the air. Stray dogs rummaged through the waste, and flies buzzed around. Every morning, municipal workers cleaned the area, but by evening, the garbage was back.
Each day, as we passed the tree, I would point out to my son how, despite neglect, it continued to grow, offering beauty and life to its surroundings.
‘Why do you talk about the tree every day, Mama?’ he asked one morning, his tiny fingers holding mine as we paused under its shade.
‘Because, my love, the tree is alive. It breathes, it listens, it remembers. It has stood here for decades, watching the world change, standing witness to stories of countless passers-by.’
His little brows furrowed in thought, but he said nothing. He merely stared at the tree, perhaps trying to understand my reverence for it.
Months passed, and our daily routine continued. One day, I noticed something that unsettled me—workers digging a trench near the tree to construct a drainage canal. Heavy machinery rumbled, shaking the ground and sending dust into the air. The excavation had reached the tree’s roots, snapping them off like someone carelessly tearing an old piece of fabric.
Something was changing, and I wasn’t sure I liked it.
Next morning, my heart shattered.
The tree had fallen.
Its massive trunk lay on the ground, the once-mighty roots now severed, exposed like the open wounds of a warrior fallen in battle. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and my eyes filled with unshed tears. My legs moved of their own volition, carrying me closer, my breath shallow, disbelieving.
Upon reaching the felled tree, I touched its trunk—once full of life, now lifeless. I could almost hear its cries, its silent agony as it fell to its demise. I imagined the moment the last root gave way, imagined the birds’ frantic flight as their home collapsed. My mind screamed, ‘They have killed the tree!’
I stood there, helpless, unable to do anything. In silence, I prayed for the fallen tree, honouring its life, and thanked for the shelter it had provided for decades. With a heavy heart, I bowed my head and said my final goodbye, hoping the birds would find new homes.
Strangely, the world around me remained indifferent.
People stepped over its fallen branches with impatience, annoyed about the obstruction on the road. Municipal workers had arrived to remove what was now merely an inconvenience. The chainsaws roared, and piece by piece, the tree was whittled down.
By the end of the day, it was completely gone.
The next morning, as I passed by the place where the tree once stood, I felt an unbearable emptiness. In its place, there now was nothing but a deep, hollow pit, a cruel scar left behind. And as if to mock its memory, people had already begun trashing the cavity, filling the void with garbage.
My son looked up at me, puzzled by my silence and the tears brimming in my eyes.
‘Mama, why do you look so sad? It was just a tree.’
I knelt beside him, cupping his tiny hands in mine. ‘No, my love,’ I whispered, my voice breaking. ‘It was never just a tree. It was a living being just like you and me.’
Still unable to grasp the weight of my grief, he looked at me, his innocent eyes searching mine.
That night, I dreamt of the tree standing tall once again, its branches heavy with birds, its leaves rustling with laughter. But when I reached out to touch it, it crumbled into dust, carried away by the wind. I woke up gasping, my heart aching, knowing that no dream could bring the tree back.
The world had moved on; every trace of the tree had been erased. But I—I would never forget.
Years from now, my son will walk this road again, older, wiser, and no longer holding my hand. The city would have grown taller, louder, and hotter. Under sweltering heat, he will wipe the sweat from his forehead, searching for a patch of shade beneath a tree.
There will be none.
Trees will be long gone, cut down and never replaced.
And in that moment, he will remember. He will remember me telling him stories of a tree that once stood there, and me mourning something that he was too young to understand.
But now, he will.
And maybe, just maybe, he will grieve too.
But it will be too late.
Trees will be just memories, and the air he respires will be so laden with pollutants that his breathing will be laboured.
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