Jill Pertler

In part one, Tree grew tall and firm in the forest in the mid-1800s, only to be felled by a human and cut into boards used to build a house. While most would see boards and call them such, Tree continued to see itself as a tree, because one never travels far from ones roots.

Whereas bunnies, squirrels and deer used to encompass Tree’s days, now interests included humans called Dad, Mom and a very small seedling referred to as Mary. Tree watched little Mary grow taller. And soon another little tree-human named Mikey was added to the mix.

Tree was fond of these beings and took pride in keeping them safe from heat and cold and rain and snow. Tree loved the laughter in the house and found it hard to remember the days when rabbits and squirrels were the height of its existence.

This all happened around 1910 to 1918. Life was good during those years. And then came The Fire.

Tree didn’t know much about the fire until it was right upon them. The early evening went from windy and dry to fiery and dangerous. Tree didn’t even consider its own well-being. It was concerned about the humans, especially Mary and Mikey.

But there wasn’t much it could do, being a tree and all.

Dad doused the roof and perimeter of the house with water before leaving with the rest of the humans. Tree understood Dad wanted to protect its walls and was glad. Then all Tree could do was wait.

It was a scary time. The minutes ticked by. Then hours. The wind whipped this way and that and the great fire reciprocated. Tree watched as neighboring houses succumbed to the blaze, lighting up the night sky.

Tree was sad.

Tree had lost neighbors and family. What had been such a happy time became sorrowful. Devastating, even.

The days ticked by slowly. The fires dissipated and finally became smoldering piles of lost dreams.

Tree was despondent.

And then, there was movement on the street outside – familiar movement. It was the humans called Dad and Mom and best of all they had with them Mary and Mikey. It was the first time, and perhaps the only time, tree wished it had a voice. It would have called out to its humans – to welcome them back. To say thank you for the water, which had undoubtedly saved its wooden being from being taken by the fire.

Instead, tree stayed silent, and gave thanks for the humans who loved him (and who Tree loved in return.)

Mary and Mikey grew to be teenagers (a hilarious yet trying time for Tree). They moved out of the house. Shortly after, Dad and Mom left and another set of humans (Tree had learned they are called family) inhabited the house. They had little humans of their own, and tree grew to love them nearly as much and maybe even more than Mary and Mikey.

This happened over and over. Humans replaced humans. Tree was amazed and saddened at the brevity of human life. One just gets to know the humans inhabiting itself and they up and leave or, worse yet, die. Tree witnessed three humans die and felt immense sadness when this happened, while understanding this was how it is supposed to be. Death here on earth is only a rebirth of some sort, much like Tree’s rebirth and metamorphosis from branches to boards.

Tree has cultivated the ability to sense when a human death is near and has come to realize that death is not ugly, but beautiful. The humans witnessing the death don’t typically see this, so Tree employs a tactic it has come to know as “pray” to connect with its roots and the humans in proximity. Tree prays for the humans to see the unfolding of the universe’s grand plans — including the beauty of death and a celebration of a life well-lived.

If trees could talk, the tree at 758 Lilac Street could recite volumes. But that’s not how it’s supposed to be.

Trees don’t talk.

But they can stand near. They can shelter. They can witness. They can love.

And they do.

They see comings and goings. They see life and death. They see the world at its best and its worst.

They can grow toward the clouds or they can be cut to their quick.

Through it all they stand by us and support us, albeit silently.

As Tree at 758 Lilac has done — for generations — and will continue to do.

As Tree only hopes.

Jill Pertler is an award-winning syndicated columnist, published playwright and author. Don’t miss a slice; follow the Slices of Life page on Facebook.