literature

The Beech

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The ancient beech tree appeared just as it had so many lifetimes ago.  The surroundings, of course, had altered drastically.  The forest of oaks and hickories where many a child had stalked squirrels and deer was replaced by a thriving city; the dogwood glade in the forest's bowels that had served as a sanctuary for generations of angsty teens seeking solace from a merciless world had become a neatly manicured park.  But the beech still stood, presiding regally over a water fountain and a scattering of benches in a desolate corner.  The yellow-leafed limbs drooped with the weight of years and memories while serpentine roots curled beneath the antiquated benches, and the thin bark on the bole remained smoothly silver.  After these many years, at least this remained to him.

He slowly extended his gaunt arm to brush the tree's delicate skin.  The calloused, arthritic fingers traced the crinkles and fissures in the bark, the once-so-familiar lifelines to a more secure time.  His searching fingertips climbed almost desperately to a semicircular knot the size of his skeletal palm.  As the fingers came in contact with the hole, they stopped as though of their own accord, then stroked it haltingly, refamiliarizing themselves with the precious, long-forgotten crevices.

After they had reacquainted themselves with the knothole, the fingers seemed to brace themselves.  They paused, resting but barely on the deformation.  Then, ever so hesitantly, they slid across the dove-colored bark as he stumbled gently over the coiled roots, circumnavigating the massive trunk to reach the opposite side of the tree. The fingers paused to follow every irregularity in order to delay what came-dreading, yet keenly needing to find what lay on the other side.  

The fingers knew the exact shape and appearance of the blemish before the fading eyes saw it.  A ropy scar, knobbed and bony as the fingers that now traced it, marred the exquisite bark:  a lopsided heart carved hastily into the waiting surface by a passionate adolescent's hunting knife, enclosing two sets of initials.

The fingers traced the ancient scar tenderly, following the diachronic lines of a long-forgotten life.  They trembled softly as they followed once again the once-cherished gashes.  A soft breath huffed gently from the half-open mouth, and the cold hand clenched slightly, as though missing the feel of something that should have been there.  The rheumy eyes gazed sadly at the shadow that was the tree.  He closed them and slowly dropped his forehead against the cool, strong trunk.  Then he achingly pushed himself off the tree and stumbled stiffly to a bench, where he sat in musing silence.

At length he looked up slowly.  A child stood in front of him, balancing awkwardly on one foot.  The boy glanced at him, then at the beech, then back.

"Did you carve that?" he asked, tentative.

The wind whistled delicately through the beech's muscled limbs.

"Why do you ask?"

"You look sad.  Did she go away?"

The old man gazed steadily at the young boy.  The child shifted, uneasy, but met his eyes.

"Child, when you find her, the one who truly is worth all the pain, do not let her go.  Not for the world.  Not for life."

The old man stood and walked away.  The child watched him go.  The beech gently wept three golden tears.
Short story for English and the :icononewordprompt: "regret" contest. Critiques much appreciated! I don't like the last line of dialogue; it needs help. And is it clear who's saying what?

And I'm tempted to coin "transchronic" in place of "diachronic." It sounds better to me, but it's not exactly a dictionary-recognized word from what I've found...and it's mixing Greek and Latin roots. :shrug:

EDIT: This is the final copy I turned in. Suggestions still wanted!

I am forever indebted to the Writer's Book of Matches.
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DelaneyLaFae's avatar
Very beautiful, and so well written.