The Tree named Fred

It wasn't the oldest or the largest tree in the park. I probably wouldn't have noticed it if it wasn't for that time that I tripped over one of its roots while playing tag with my younger brother. I slammed into the ground and bruised my elbows. Angry and in pain, I kicked its trunk, and only served to injure myself further. As I leaned against it, nursing my toe, I felt the smooth bark of the trunk. It felt warm to my touch, that's how I remember it, as though it was empathizing with my pain. My brother had called my name or something, and I began the chase him again, but I glanced back at this tree, wondering...

The park wasn't very big, perhaps a bit bigger than a football field, an attempt at providing a common green space. It was only a few streets away from where we lived, in a small house with barely a yard, which we shared with another family because dad's job didn't pay that much. The neighbours had 3 kids and being much younger than us, their parents "encouraged" Jon and I to go play in the park. We got to know the park well, and even named the trees. The warm one I called Fred. I don't remember the names of the others.

After a while, our house neighbours left, and dad's pay didn't stretch to cover the rent for the whole house, so he started working a second job. Around that time, Jon got in with a different crowd in high school and stopped talking to me. That was a lonely time. I think that's when I started visiting Fred. At least one kid thought I was crazy, seeing me talk to Fred. But I don't remember anyone ever telling me that trees couldn't listen.

I'd often read while sitting under the shade of Fred. There was a crook where two of his big roots were, where you could snuggle in and almost feel like you were sitting in a lounge chair; I could be found there most of the time after school when I wanted to get out of the house and do some reading. Sometimes I'd read aloud wondering what Fred thought about the story, or about some fascinating animal somewhere across the ocean.

A time later, I found my brother's initials carved into Fred, within a love heart, as people do. I didn't recognize the girls initials, but I didn't know the people he hung out with back then. He'd become moody and abusive at times, breaking cups and slamming doors. I wasn't sure what to make of this scratched artwork. Was this perhaps the beginning or the middle of a relationship? An unrequited love, or a sealing of intention in a wood carving? I never did find out. A few weeks later both initials were scratched out and attempts at defacing the heart-shape made. The wounds didn't seem to have been done in haste. I ran my fingertips along them wondering how long he had stood here running the blade again and again across the bark. The streetlights conveniently lit up the side that he had carved the heart, I didn't doubt that he had come here late in the evening, perhaps pouring out his sorrow to an ever-listening Fred.

After my brother finished high school he left our small town. "Off to see the world," he said confidently. He'd somehow managed to survive his 'bad crowd' phase, even though two of his friends had ended up with stints in jail, while another had died in an alcohol-related accident. He'd scraped through with only a tattoo on his right shoulder he wasn't proud of and a host of stories he'd never tell me.

It was about three years after Jon left that dad died. A sudden heart attack on his way to work, and he was gone. No matter how hard I searched, there was no way of telling Jon. It was like he'd vanished. I remember receiving a postcard sent from halfway around the world two months after he'd first left in "search of enlightenment". But after that, silence, and no way of tracking him down. No phone number and his email started bouncing even a year after he left. I had landed a job in the big city a few months before dad passed away and had already started to pack. So, not long after the funeral I put the house up for sale and left.

Before I left, I carved this note into Fred, wanting my anger to leave a lasting mark:
"Jon,
You better not come back.
You won't find anything.
Don't blame me for your losses.
Your brother."