Like A Tree

A Story by Hunter Zabbai

Complacency.

Sought after, hard to find. The search for it blinds. The weak fall and never get up. But even the strong and determined warriors will be defeated. There is something that sets them apart from the mediocrity that kill and the radiant that thrill. The ability to get up off the ground again. Their clothes, still smudged with dirt from their previous losses, proud, with a smirk. Always the quirky one. They don't do it alone. Their true families are always there for them, even when they can't see it. New lenses are needed, and constant cleaning is required.

His house falls apart. The boards are broken, the paint chips away. Without a white-picket fence he strays. Further and further from the roots. His matchbook losing more and more everyday, burning the old memories and has beens, flings and queens. He wants to be reserved, a reservoir. His accustomed rabid speech, like a dog with teeth.

A homemade doctorate degree hangs in the frame where is family picture once did. Self-diagnosed, self-medicated. Picks up his prescription, always remembering to take the right dosage. Take without food and sleep. Take as much as needed. Side effects may include loss of weight, loss of teeth, loss of self.

A speed freak, always looking for that new rush. Such great heights, brand new crush. Coffee and tea, overdosed with nicotine. Sugared up, watered down. Always the one to be around. With open arms and crying shoulders, the snow only grows colder. The time passed and the days faded, and so did he.

Abandoned at youth, logistical problems caused complications of the truth. Distorted views. Lonely and hopeless. We all want to be sought after. We all want true love. A portmanteaus alchemy of love and lust. Mis-associated feelings. His brain was big, but so was his pride. That fire was constantly fed, with clothes from random strangers. One tiny spark ignited forest fires.

A great forest arose out of an open grave. The fire collapses.

Desolate, alone, isolated. The bottom of the rock bruised and scraped. The scars are permanent. But the damage is not.

He applied a new type of Bandage. A familiar one, one that was there all along.

He replaced the degree with an un-picture perfect family. He ripped out his tongue, just like when he was young. He stabbed out his eyes, for there was no more prize. He tells no more lies. The oxygen tank provides the Breath of Life. As he said to himself, " Time to die."

He became a tree. Deepening his roots daily, feeding them just what they need. For he is no longer afraid to be cut down. For even if he is, he will sprout again, growing new branches, the most beautiful of leaves, standing taller, firmer, more admirable than before. He now gives off shade to whoever is willing. In the autumn, he no longer cowers in the cold, making refuge wherever he can. No, not anymore. The colors will change, and the leaves will fall. But they will compost, right under the tree. And flourish a new color, for everyone to see.

That he has been made whole again.