I died and you planted a tree on my grave.
The tree grew, its roots went deep into the ground, and soon a part of me was part of the tree. I pushed my roots downwards and I stretched out my branches. The sun caressed me, the rain washed me clean and when I shed my leaves, I got to dance in the wind. Another part of me ached in the soil, nurturing me.
A squirrel and a woodpecker took turns to tickle me. I was a nest, a home and a sanctuary. A hunting ground, a pantry and a seat. Leaves sprouted and life flourished and decayed with me.
A bird ate my fruit and I went flying. The rain carried my nourishment, and I gave it to nourish other life. I flowed into streams and rivers and eventually oceans, where I drowned and was reborn until I became clouds.
In small fragments the memory of the person I was before I died lives on. To think how small, how trapped and vulnerable I was then, before I died. Before I lived.
