Escritiendo

 Missing: P.L.U.R. between Mother Nature and Humanity (Last Seen in the 60’s)  

        The day is a sleepy, Carolina one on this end of the sound; my foodless picnic is planted in a spared grove of trees overlooking the salty habitat. The sun perches in a sky, kin to the Blue Man Group, while scorching the enemy dock into a pale pulp. A crisp chorus resonates from trees above me, and the frame of olive grasses around the brackish water emanates a rhythmic lapping. Kissing the water’s coat is an inconsistent hue from an obnoxious metallic object drowning one beside it: a modest brown reflected from the arched being to my left.           Its hearty trunk bends backwards and raises its arms to celestial heavens above pleading for light hoarded by the neighboring pines. Branches flex and mock our inventions, much like our abodes that cannot withstand a teeny hurricane. Life gathers on these symbolic branches and at its grandmotherly feet; the roots mellow the dark-chocolate soil with fables. Weaved into the mound of earth that the tree vacates are sprightly lime shoots and numerous insects which unintentionally crack beneath my feet. 

          Shadows and light softly rest upon each limb accentuating every wrinkle and fold. Each nub and scab on the surface of pinched skin is a memory of an unborn or defunct branch in its epoch.  The tree meticulously ages like Lady Liberty because of the faded green scales that hinder youthful red bark underneath. Observing that I could be unmercifully swallowed by the tree’s trunk alone, I know this tree has been here longer than my family. It has seen all the predictable changes on this island from when it began to be tactlessly developed in the late 1960’s to today. Now the doom of this tree is dictated by an enterprise that ironically feeds my mouth. Yet, it sits righteously and glances tenderly at me through its cool shade which makes this suffocating heat bearable. 

          The pungent waft of decaying matter on the sound’s bottom flourishes in my nostrils and causes me to come face to face with the northeast wind. A nervous humming of an engine becomes distinct in the vicinity; a boy, ignorant of my realm, has acquired consent to take his boat out for a spin and is getting a thrill that Jesus must have had as he walked on water. Consequently, he ruined my serene sphere. Racket of the nearby bridge was taking liberty to rush in now: road-rage and rubber against asphalt. Meanwhile, a feeling as if I’ve impacted on concrete causes me to acknowledge my front-row and center seat on the runway. But, as swiftly as the wind carried the tart dins to my inner ear, they are muted. The tree with sour-green apple leaves was once again my focal point.

      This tree is oddly asking me to question the esteem of my peachy life: we think we are smarter, but who lives longer? Who lives symbiotically with other species? Who perpetually has a place to call home and tenants to call friends? Who  not afraid of storms or a shifting island? Who is at peace with Mother Nature? This tree is an elder to nearly the entire population; according to custom, it deserves my reverence, your reverence, and the reverence of all. We cannot make it a childish puppet to satiate our needs.