A Silent Observer - autobiography of a tree

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A Silent Observer I stand on a wrinkled patch of land, cracked and parched by the dry heat of the same sun, that once helped me and others like me thrive and flourish under its care. Most of the others have withered away, save a few that are still clinging on to dear life, their strength diminishing each passing day. I do not remember much of my childhood, only that it was a really long time ago. I have but a few days worth of breath left in me, yet I still seem to stand as tall and strong as ever, but I am unable to bear fruits and flowers, a feeling I deeply miss. The first time I crept out of the safety of the earth, I saw a young boy, leaning over me, blocking out the sun. Smiling, he poured cool water over me, introducing me to a practice that would continue for years to come. Right before me was a thatched hut made of the same soil I was rooting in. The boy spent a lot of time mending and carrying repairs on it. Like the clouds, the years went floating by, I became stronger and taller than others surrounding me. The hut with the thatched roof transformed into a little house. I was bearing fruits and flowers, sparrows, and other little birds fought over room to nest their babies. Squirrels tickled me with their tiny paws and hid their treasures in every corner of me that they could find. The little boy left one day. And when several winters later when he came back he was little no more. Another woman accompanied him, and there was a little girl as well. The house transformed into a mansion. Almost as tall as me. Ropes were hung on one of my arms, I bore witness to whimsical laughs and joyful glee of the little girl, as she delightfully hung on to the ropes, while the boy who was little no more, pushed her gently on the new swing. Many afternoons were spent under my shade by the little girl, and I soon came to love her just as I had loved the little boy.

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