Home.
The textbook definition is such a stiff, cold way to put it- the place where one lives, often with familial connotations. But it's not just a house for humans. For as long as I've been alive, it never ceases to amaze me how they're able to change and mold their surroundings. I've always respected that part of them- their ability to manipulate things to their advantage, the way they can think up such creative ways to solve issues. And yet, with such complex brains as they have, they waste their brilliance undermining each other and hurting others like them, sometimes unintentionally, often times selfishly. But somehow, they find ways to overcome the hurt, the malevolence.
I guess you could say that this park is my home, but it's different. I can't move or change my surroundings, and I'm not as social as humans are. I've often wished to be one of them, to walk among their odd little society and live with them, learn with them. But instead, I stand from a distance and I watch them, study them,- silently, from my unchanging, silently, perpetually rigid place in the center of the park. I observe the lives of each person, following their development, as they hurry through their busy little lives. Sunlight filters through the canopy and spotty patches of gold dance off the lush spring grass. The swish of the creek nearby lures people to my area of the park with the promise of refreshment in the heat of the day, and I protect them from the burn of the noon-high sun.
A girl and her dog rush through the creek, laughter bouncing off of other nearby trees as her friend chases her through the grass.
An artist sits on the other side of the creek, occasionally glancing at me as she paints over a canvas of jade, lime, and malachite hues.
An elderly couple lays a blanket under my branches, enjoying the light of the day as the old man quietly serenades his wife. The music fills the park with renewed life, hypnotizing in its delicate melody. There's emotion in every note, every change in rhythm, sighing with the breeze.
One of my favorite aspects of humans is their ability to love. They harbor it for so many things- the strong friendship between the girl and her dog, the artist's passion for nature and beauty, the everlasting affection shared between two elders enjoying a nice day in the park. This love among them exists in ever growing ways, evolving as they do. It's the center of their home, the sun around which everything else needs to orbit. A house is merely the shell filled with this flame, this warmth, that creates a true home. And even if someone has the fanciest, most elaborate shell to live in, one finds themself homeless in the lack of warmth.
A quietude pervades the park at night, save for those few birds who sing their goodnights to each other within the canopy. Moonlight overcomes sunlight, and it streams through the canopy in its pale, ghostly haze. Night hides the secrets that Day would otherwise expose, striking fear into the hearts of many. It lacks the warmth that Day shares, lacks the light needed to make humans feel safe. I suppose that's why I've only ever seen one human in the park during the dark hours, a boy who was not a child, but not yet an adult. And yet, within him, he seemed to become the night itself.
I watched him glide between the trunks, a shadow with a purpose. He came to stand by me, looking into the creek, thinking. The boy stood there for a long time, his dark hair swaying like his hoodie in the soft breeze of the park. Finally, he looked up to me, tears threatening to fall as he stepped up to me. He began extracting a rope from the pocket of his hoodie, and it was then that I realized: he didn't have the light. He not only This child lacked the life I so often saw in humanity. He was homeless.
After looping the rope around one of my branches, the boy began to climb up. Sitting down, he strung the end of the rope around his own neck, his movements empty and dark. It was as if his soul had been destroyed, decimated. Taking a deep breath, he looked up into the canopy. The stars glittered and twinkled through the leaves, mockingly, and the boy almost laughed. He closed his eyes, and I finally realized what he was about to do.
He pushed off. With a sickening crack, the rope snapped taught, cutting off his supply of air. His body begged for relief, for the precious oxygen he desperately craved, but I knew his spirit needed so much more.
I couldn't allow him end like this. I had seen so much of humanity evolve and grow, and I knew that there was so much more left for this young boy to accomplish, to feel, to live through. For the first time in my existence, I tried to move. I used every ounce of strength I had, and finally-
*SNAP*
The branch split into two, and the rope loosened. The boy collapsed to ground, sputtering for air, and relief flooded through me. He turned onto his back and gazed once again at the stars through the canopy. The tears broke through and the flood of emotions flowed through the dam he'd built up. Never had I so desperately wanted to be a human, just to be able to comfort the poor, lost soul.
The boy stayed that way for a long time, and it was almost daybreak by the time he finally stood up. Birds had begun singing their greetings to each other as the fog lifted from the trees, and hazy sunlight broke through to light his path. He stared at me, at the broken stump of the branch, and smiled sadly. Taking one last deep breath, he sighed and followed the sunlight back out of the park, leaving me in silence as I watched him go.
*~*~*~*
The park is once again filled with light and life. The sun glitters through the canopy and bathes the grass in its flood of gold, enlivening the park in warmth and reassurance. The despair of that night, decades ago, has faded, and I follow the lives of the humans as I always have. So unique, and yet always exactly the same, I'm still fascinated by the complexity of humanity as I watch them living their busy little lives.
A boy and his dog run through the park, chasing each other through the waters and bouncing between trees, immersing the area in laughter.
A photographer sits on the other side of the creek, fiddling with her camera to manipulate the best picture of the jade, lime, and malachite hues in my leaves.
And at last, An elderly couple once again lays a blanket under my branches. The two men sit at the base of my trunk and star up into the leaves, one singing softly to the other as he strums a sweet, simple melody from the strings of an acoustic guitar. The man listening sighs in content as he looks up at one particular branch of mine, a branch that had long ago been stunted in growth in an attempt to save a life. He smiles, mouthing a 'thank you,' and I'm struck by a sudden thought; The lost boy that I had encountered decades ago had found himself, found the light that he had forgotten in the despair of the night. He'd found somewhere where he was finally loved for who he was, for who who he had always been.
He found his home.
Not the cold, detached, textbook definition of it, but the meaningful, emotional, human version of it. Home is where love exists, where you can truly be yourself. Where you're accepted for who you are. And the lonely, lost boy, had found himself when he found me.
He had made me a part of his home.
