Short Fiction - Time Passes

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It began as a sapling; a tiny leafed shoot poking its way through the rich and fertile earth. The sun nourished it, and it grew, rising up to meet that which gives it life. It twists and wriggles contently, these movements taking hours to complete, but it does not mind. It has all of its life ahead of it. The weather changes; the sky growing darker as though some cosmic entity were pulling down the blinds.

It begins to rain. A boy runs towards the shoot. He is dressed in a yellow rain-slicker and a wide grin. He stamps in the puddles, giggling in what can only be described as the euphoria of life, and water sprays in all directions, droplets flying through the air as he watches, mouth wide and eyes dilated in joy. He approaches the shoot. He is staring intently at the ground, watching all of the creatures that have emerged from their holes to meet the weather just like him. He spots the shoot. His grin widens in fellowship. He stumbles towards it, legs pumping his little body forward. Reaching it, he crouches, whispering to it. Greeting it. He mutters something that the shoot does not quite catch.

“…like me… growing…”

He giggles again, droplets of rain running down the slick, yellow surface of his jacket in the same way that water runs off a duck’s back. He rises to his feet, mind already focused on the next interesting thing. Then he is gone.

Time passes. The shoot grows, its tip curling and twisting towards the infinite entity of heat in the sky. It no longer is a small shoot, but something that can be easily recognised as a tree. Its arms grow outwards, and it embraces its surroundings with a familial love. Seasons change and the tree changes with them, shedding its fledgling verdant coat in favour of an autumnal ember.

The crunching of twigs breaks it from its contemplation. A band of boys charge towards the tree’s sanctum, armed with sticks chosen carefully from the floor of the woods. They swing them around, seeing not sticks but swords – they are a crew of bloodthirsty pirates on an adventure. ‘Yarr’ is the cry taken up, and the boys charge past the tree and away to whatever island their imaginations create for them. One of them stops, lowering his ‘sword’ as he spots the small tree poking out of the ground. He stares for a moment, bemused. Then he is a pirate again, and blunders off to catch up with his friends.

Time passes. A teenager approaches the tree; arm linked with what the tree knows will be an ephemeral love. They pass the tree and stop at its base, then lock together and embrace. The tree senses the tears in the teenager’s eyes – rolling droplets, reminiscent of those present when these two friends first met. The teenager’s hands are shaking with something that the tree is unable to identify – desire or sorrow? Contemplating this for long after the two have left, the tree feels empathy for its friend.

Time passes. A man approaches the tree, a man with a stress-induced premature tinge of grey in his hair, eyes weary with the pressure of life. The tree understands this feeling, with the nicks and scars of time being a familiar phenomenon to it. The man places his hand on the tree’s thick trunk, and strokes the lines and contours of age. He stares up at the very top of the tree, and his eyes well up as the passing of time becomes fatally clear to him. The tree comforts him, resolute in its steadfastness. The friends share a moment which is whisked away by the wind. The man removes his hand slowly, and stares at the floor. Then he departs.

Time passes. The man returns. Grey has overwhelmed the man’s hair, which is thinner and sparser than the tree remembers. The man wields a stick – this time not a sword, but a walking stick. He supports himself on it as he slowly makes his way towards the tree, using the stick as an extension of his body. Wheezing, he finally reaches the tree – his friend. He leans against the trunk, chest moving weakly up and down, in a way that the tree knows is not sustainable. The man’s chest rises and falls in sync with the wind whistling through the tree’s uppermost branches. They feel the bond of age, and the man stays for a while, sitting in silence with the tree as they recall the stories of their youth.

Time passes. The tree has not seen its friend for many years.

Time passes. The tree knows that the man is gone.

Time passes.

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Hey there, dex here.
This story itself is about the passage of time (if you hadn't already guessed from the repeating line, which is almost a chorus to the whole piece) and growing old with the ones you love. It's about loss and gain, age and youth, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. Let me know what you liked or what you think worked - and let me know what you didn't like or think could be improved! I'm still really quite new to Steemit, so I'd appreciate it if perhaps you had a read of some of my other work.
I plan on putting something new up on Sunday - if you enjoyed what you read here, consider checking back then for (hopefully) a new post! But until then, stay awesome.

dex