The Little Tree

I remember when our love was young and strong, when our lives together unwound out in front of us. A vibrant braided ribbon. From that angle, it looked to unwind forever. We were full of hope, then. Ideals. Passion.

We bought a house. Empty of Things, but filled with potential. Choosing Things together was a chore. It felt alien to visit the garden centre, like actual grown-ups, and buy houseplants (which we promptly killed with our inexperience and busy-ness). But we have Arrived! I thought, when we purchased the tree for our driveway.

It was a cherry blossom tree. Looked a little dull, to be honest, hardly more than a tall stick when we planted it. But the picture attached to it promised lush splendour.

That first year was hard. Were a partner to behave now the way we did then, in our worst moments, bags might be packed, locks changed. Youth often thrives on drama, yet lacks a spine. There's an evil satisfaction to the great empty gesture of Storming Out. Slamming a door. Marching down the road, fueled by anger and hurt. The follow, the pleading, the stumble, the fall... the snap.

I was disproportionately upset the little tree was ruined, would surely die, before it had a chance to flourish and establish itself.

The little tree did not die. We mended it. Found alignment, made sure the pieces bonded properly. Gave it a chance.

It lived. Grew. Stronger than I believed possible.

Now, we're surrounded by the clutter of lives lived. Potential has dwindled away, but look: every year, in March, the tree is gowned in the softest, most brilliant white. Better, even, than the picture promised. As April moves into May she sheds her beautiful raiment with no shame or regret whatsoever. In Spring the little house draws every eye. Then, for a short while, our little slice of the world is carpeted with silky warm snow.

I see brilliant blue between those branches. We squeeze hands. Content within earshot of grandchildren hunting for chocolate eggs, I think: I'm so glad our little tree didn't die.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 31st March at 11.52AM

*Quick Author's Note*

First, and most importantly: thank you for reading!

If you enjoyed this story, the best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another.

A Year of Stories: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes an 91 day streak since the 1st January. I'm collating them in my Index post.

Edit: the story behind the story - this is partly autobiographical. I'm not actually old for grandchildren, but we did plant a tree out front, and it did snap during a row shortly after being planted. It survived, and thrived.

The prompt I used for this was "if it's your birthday this month, write a story that is autobiographical, or partly autobiographical".

Leave me a link if you use this prompt!

If you'd like some more prompts to get your inky juices flowing, have a look at my prompts for April! These include my birthday indulgence: a Fucked Up Fairy Tales Unofficial Challenge, which I'll be posting more about soon 😁

Thank you

Thank you again! I do my best to reciprocate all reads. Leaving a comment makes that easier 😁