Stream -- The Ever-Changing Tree...

Note: This is a stream of consciousness piece written in one session and printed with minimal revisions.

"The Ever-Changing Tree lived at the top of a flowering hill that rose up out of the towns surrounding it. One, small dirt road led off the main thoroughfare for traffic up to the base of the hill. Growing there were wild, unkempt flowers, grass that was literally high and dry, and all kinds of untamed brush. Someone, long ago, cut a swath through that and laid rough, uneven stepping stones into the funky soil. That was the only pathway through. It stopped where the manicured fields of bright California Poppy flowers began. Those formed a perfect circle around the field of the tree. The field of the tree was huge. The good soil beneath was covered by short and perfectly green grass. The field extended from the base of the tree trunk out slightly beyond the reach of branches. This was a long way.

"The Ever-Changing Tree was a giant oak. The biggest I had ever seen. I only knew the details of its home from memory. I did not get out much, but that does not mean that the tree and I were not constant companions. I lived out of the bedroom of an apartment quite a distance away. A long distance, but an unimpeded distance. This meant that my binoculars and my picture window were my prized possessions. Every morning and all through the day, and once before sleep, I kept tabs. I could only see the crown of the hill, which meant the Tree and its field, but that was all I would look at anyway. Still, I knew the rest was there, and I felt I was watching the head of an old-fashioned Franciscan monk. And I felt the Tree was watching right back.

I did not name this tree. Some say the Tree named itself, or at least led those interested in naming to a logical conclusion. Whatever happened, anyone who stayed long enough to observe it agreed with it. Tough times came and the bark darkened, appeared more hardy, and the green of the oak leaves deepened. The tree was moody. In angry, chippy parts of the year, when the people needed a vacation but weren't going to get it, the tree mirrored their spirits. It grayed and faded, the leaves grew paler, while the grass underneath tinted brown. The tree was like all of us where it also had its moments. There were the months when it was at its lowest point, and yet gave to us more than ever. Empty and bare, it gave its field time to thrive. And when the sun set on those cold days, the giant oak branches shined the light through and gave the people just a little more before night set in.

"The night did set in, however, and that was not the time to tell stories of the Tree or introduce it to an outsider. An eerie mist moved in from the lake and congregated on that hill. Strange lights would float about, probably reflections from cars out late, or maybe a stark moon. If the tree had leaves, they would certainly look sickly. Those were times where you still took in the sights, but were glad when they were over. This was true especially for me, for the Tree was an eerie tree on the night my golden age was first rocked. Weeks before, my binoculars were taken away so I wouldn't throw them at any more nurses. On my last night on my own, in my apartment, by myself, I could only squint through my picture window to see that eerie tree. The next day, I lost that window when I was brought here. They tried to take away my Tree when they said my story scared the inmates."

"Mr. Langston, there are no inmates here, it's not a prison. This is a home for you, and I want you to be taken care of. You haven't lost your tree."

"That's right, my dear. Because then I met you, Ms. Rawlings, and you like my story. And you're right, I haven't lost my tree. Just as I could always see the tree's home, so can I see the Tree, plain as day, right now as I can see you. It is the best it has ever looked. Exactly like the way the world is fresher after surviving a serious health crisis, or the way every color is brighter and richer and fuller when you first realize you love someone, that is The Ever-Changing Tree. The wind rustles the branches, and yet it is soft on your face. The leaves are vibrant and the sight of the sunshine on them makes you feel warm inside. Yet the bark is cool, and you would sit, back against the trunk, and read all day if you could. I imagine flying through the air, and seeing the fields of poppies sway with the breeze, and the adornment of the great hill. The faceless hustle and bustle of the people is gone, but the towns are alive with their spirits."