Tree

I watch the leaves of the tree fall and flutter on the ground before they’re away, somewhere else. They’ll return to the ground, I suppose. My father planted this tree when he was a little boy. He’s long gone now, but the tree is still there for me to see and admire how it changes in the seasons. The bark is always there, even if the leaves are not. His spirit is always there even if he himself is not. And I sit and look and wonder: who else will see this tree, and will they know that I, too, looked at it, admired it, and thought of my father here? How many people have different memories of the same object?

It’s time for me to go home, so I turn away. It feels like leaving his hospital bed for the last time, every time.

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