The Boy Under Our Tree

Shhh...

Cherry blossoms idly flow in the spring wind.

Shhh...

We all sway, sway, sway....

Shhh...

...Just as we always do.

Shhh...

A boy walks up to our tree. The same boy as always, sitting down as he always does, reading a book as he always does. He hums a soft, gentle tune as he always does, the same one he always does.

Hmm hmm hmm, hmm...

A cool breeze lifts his hair and causes it to sway with us, just as it always does. I stare down and him and smile, just as I always do. After a few minutes, he pushes his brown-to-blonde-ombré locks out of his face and looks up at us, the flowers of the tree. He wears a gentle smile, just as he always does. His deep, teal eyes are locked on me, mine locked on him, just as they always are. His eyes shimmer like jewels under the Sun, showing compassion, joy, peace, fading sorrow. They look like this every day.
He looks back down at his book after a few minutes, just as he always does. Fat globs of liquid fall to the ground as he shuts his book and begins to quietly cry, just as he always does.
He finished relishing in sorrow and continues reading his book, just as he always does. The book is always black or orange or purple, and never too thick or too thin. On the front there is always an illustration of a man in fancy clothing or one with a long, silver stick; sometimes it's a combination of both. There are usually more illustrations inside as well, which always puzzles me. I've seen many others looking to be around the same age as him and, though most never carry any sort of literature, the ones that do read books with mostly words, and very few pictures, most books limiting their pictures to the covers and a few pages at the beginning.
Judging by what I've heard and seen around other adolescent humans, I'd guess the boy is around ten years of age, and has been visiting us since before spring, before any of us even sprouted. I've known him my whole life.
Around an hour passes and the boy shuts his book and stands as he always does. He turns to say goodbye in the most friendly of manners before walking off, his grin staying plastered on his face as it always has upon exiting. I smile and wave the boy off as I always have, despite the fact that he could never witness it.
"Oh," the boy turns around as he never has, "and thank you." He then continues on his journey, leaving me with a sense of accomplishment that I've never felt before. I am very glad to have this boy in my life, I think to myself. Closing my eyes, I let my conscience drift into tomorrow..
When my mind is once again focused, the Sun is high in the sky. People play in the nearby park, chasing each other and laughing. They soon leave, cuing the boy to come, which had been a natural occurrence until now. I wait patiently, but the boy does not come. The Sun takes longer than usual to set, eventually alerting me that the boy will not arrive here today, as this is always the time of his dismissal. I sigh and stare sorrowfully at the ground on which he stood yesterday as he thanked me for the first time since we'd met.
But for what; what did the boy thank me for? What was the purpose of thanking me then of all the days we spent together? Try as I might, I cannot lure an answer to my collective consciousness. I decide to put it off for now, letting my thoughts drift off once more....
The Sun is almost in the center of the sky this time, but there isn't a soul in sight. No children playing what they refer to as tag; no adults helping adolescents get into what the have named swings due to their movement when played upon; no boy under our tree....
The Sun is about to set when to women show up, clothes in black robes called dresses. One opens a small vile and and the other clasps her hands together in prayer as the latter sprinkled silver particles along the base of our tree.
    What is that? I wish to ask. What are you placing about our roots? Where is the boy who comes here? Do you know him? How is he?
One of the women's voice disrupts my thoughts. "It's a crying shame," she says as she unclasps her hands. "He was young, too young. It wasn't his time."
Those words send my thoughts spiraling into oblivion. I've been alive long enough to know how humans refer to those of their kind who are deceased. Still, I cannot bring myself to succumb to the idea that the boy I've known since I bloomed is never going to come back.
The woman with the vile begins to cry. "He was only ten, why did he have to leave this world so soon?" She cries out. "Why did my baby have to leave me?"
Oh, so she was his mother. I only wish I could embrace her, that I could hold her and grieve with her, that we could both relish in our shared longing for his return. Oh, how I wish the bow would come back to us, one last time, how I wish he could sit under our tree once more and read, then cry, then read some more, then smile at us as we said our silent and bittersweet goodbyes, just once last time. How I wish for his presence...
"He loved this tree," says the empty-handed woman. "He was always here. He didn't care for toy cars or dolls or anything except his books and this ancient stump." She walks closer, pressing her hand to the trunk of our tree, and I can just barely feel her soft hand against the bark. I can feel the warmth radiating from her body in the cool breeze, I can watch as the wind blows a few of us into the sweet release of the ground, plucked gently so they may shrivel and perish. But not me, I get not such a luxury. I must stay, I must live, I must be forced to mourn the dearest child to my heart. I must move on.
The women take their leave, one still smiling and the other comforting them as they leave me all alone in my sorrow, in the darkness that shadows out my very existence. Oh, how I wish for the boy's return. But he will not return, never again. Never again.
Days pass slowly, and no matter how much the Sun shines, or how much share of our nutrients is handed over to me, I can no longer enjoy the hours I spend attached to our tree. I can no longer radiate as I once have, for the smiles and the sweet joy that boy once brought have turned bitter and sour, and I almost regret ever paying mind to the child, for now the consequences of my actions are due in full.
Months are leisurely to come, but at last Autumn finds us, and more of us are blown from our stems and branches. I can only await as wind after wind carries no relief for my everlasting pain.
Of course, the day must always come where I am shed in order for our tree to survive, it's merely as the life cycle is. And the day does come when one hearty gust snaps my stem and I blow into the breeze. I feel my consciousness fade, but I an not sad. I am, in fact, relieved, for this brings opportunity: opportunity to put an end to my grievances, to finally be set free, and to see that boy again - the boy under our tree.