Death of the Hanging Tree

A work of pure fiction

We all gathered round the hanging tree
but it's really not what you think at all.
It's just a big live oak, 
that grew against a garden wall.
This tree held a million memories
at least a few of them were mine.
People would bring gifts to hang on the branches,
little prayers for people they loved --
People that they lost.
They say the tree was here when the Mayflower landed
but no one really believes that.
The truth is, no one knows,
and now it doesn't really matter.
The first time I came to the tree I was nine years old.
I came with my mother.
We tied my Grandfathers scarf around a thick branch.
He died in February, I remember that.
I came again when I was seventeen,
a foolish boy,
hoping that the note I tacked to the trunk
would make Jenny Thompson come back to me.
She never did; the tree doesn't always work.
Now the tree is lying on its side,
victim of a lightning strike on a summer night.
I stood in the front of the crowd
and remembered the last time I was here.
I came when I was thirty-three
with a gift, my mother had given me...

Author's Note

I should add a note here: My mother is alive and well, the story just kind of came out this way.

Thanks for reading.

Reviews

[Gaia Octavia]

I like this a lot. I enjoy the slightly misleading title, but only in the way that the reader views it. It serves as a gentle reminder that assumptions are almost always incorrect, and that things are often more beautiful when you take the time to really look at them. I enjoyed the story you wove. It was gentle, honest, and interesting from line 1. Well done!

[James]

Thank you so much. I wasn't sure about the title.

[barleygirl]

This is one of my favorites of yours that I've read lately (& you've been on a prolific boon -- good for you!) This is so well written, including such well-illustrated intimate details, we believe it, & we can see the entire sequence as it goes on thru this person's life. I also feel your message is symbolic of the way we each carry a hanging tree within our minds/hearts . . . collecting similar memories & significant happenings from our lives.

[James]

Thank you so much and yes we all carry things with us, our own hanging tree. I'm glad oyu liked this and thank you for such an encouraging compliment.

[Shabeeh Haider]

So many memories attached to a tree. Memories of people who have left. And then that tree is no more.
A nice work of fiction.

[James]

Thank you, I'm glad you liked it

[Shimmerbliss/CAF]

I really enjoyed this. Your note said it was "pure fiction" but from reading your work I can hear that voice of yours that rings so clearly of your early life. I love the ending, the way you leave it up to the reader to imagine the story behind losing your mother. This is quite powerful, yet sad. I get a bit of the feeling of "doctor heal thyself" here...the tree didn't always work, as you say, but now all hope is lost.

[James]

Thank you so much. I'm not quite sure where it came from and my mother is very much alive. (I guess I can't let her read this) I was thinking about my grandfather and my father who I lost very close together after not seeing them for years. So there is a little bit of guilt the lines as well. Thank you again.

[LastMonth]

Somehow the title made me think that this was about people being hanged.
Obviously this was entierly different.

The way you chose your words felt both innocent and influenced. I mean by that, that you managed to put meaning into your writing without it looking forced.

The poem is quite simple, and without rhymes, yet honesty echos from it.
Not every story needs a great battle, a terrible villain or a heartbreaking tragedy. It is the little things that sometime evoke the most emotions from us. A good luck coin, a gift from a deceased one, a token of appreciation from an enemy.

Thank you for your writing.

[James]

Thank you for your review. I'm glad you enjoyed this.