The Miracle Tree

Hammond, LA

This creative non-fiction is 2,846 words. Later in the narrative, it shifts to my military experience.
The Miracle Tree
The tree was one of the largest on my 7 acres. Over 3 feet across at the base, 100 feet high, dark, rough, brown bark giving way to dark, rich green needles toward the sky. One morning, coffee in hand, I saw the telltale strips of exposed yellow wood, almost appearing white in contrast to the tree’s brown bark, ascending from the trunk, traveling to the top of the tree to disappear amongst the dark green needles next to the clouds scudding across my field of vision. There were five almost parallel tracks, at least an inch wide, a couple inches deep, with some gouges exploding wood several feet away. It looked like a giant bear had sharpened its claws on it. It was a lightning strike; a divine spark of life for primordial ooze, a divine spark of sudden extinction for others.
Knowing such an assault was usually a death sentence, I was pleasantly surprised over the coming months to see the green needles remain green and the wounds, though grievous, attempt to heal over. And yet, it was the following seasons that revealed how remarkable the recovery. Huge sections of the pine rotted out at the base, leaving only the barest tendrils of live, barked wood to hold up the rest of the tree. Like an Atlas holding up the world, or a one-legged soldier trying to stand at attention. To gaze on this, it seemed like a magic trick, so much life, thousands of pounds of it, apparently suspending in thin air. I called a friend over for a look.
“You need to cut it down, it’s a hazard. Don’t know where it’s going.”
“It wants to live,” was all I could say.
Therefore, the Miracle Tree.

TREES
Cathedrals & Rooms

I spent part of my childhood in rural Oklahoma. This land was initially deemed worthless by my white ancestors and unknown to many of my native ones. Much of the area is semi-arid, though if one looks for a river, there are often small, wooded valleys cut by that waterway called ‘Hollows’ or more prosaically, ‘Hollers’. Once, I found myself in one while hunting for supper.
My first sense descending into that dark wood was smell. Unlike the dry dustiness I had just left, the air was cool with moisture and smelled of earth, wood and things as yet indefinable. Wafting among the breezes were also a cacophony of sounds; birds mostly, some heralding my arrival, others talking to each other with their melodies.

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