The Cement Tree

The green branches of the high trees linked together like crossed hands and allowed the sunlight to penetrate magically and swiftly between their fingers. Those thin rays of light tickled the small particles that danced in the air like glitter after a girls' party. Then the glitter fell on the arched back of an old young man. Old young man? The little spectators of the forest had a debate. The squirrels saw he was old; look at the sluggish movement of his feet and hear the loud wheezing sound of his breathing. The birds defended; he was weak but not old. His face was tired but not wrinkled. He might have seen much pain but not many years.

That weak spine carried a huge heavy cloth bag and struggled with it through the forest until he reached a stream running beside a little clearance where the spring sun shone brightly, at last. He placed the bag down and sat breathlessly beside it. He was surprised by the coolness of the soil, which made him spring into action. He opened the cloth bag and took out a metal container. He piled some cement into it from inside the bag also and approached the stream and did his work of magic. He was a sculptor, or at least he was supposed to be.

He worked for hours and hours, taking very few, very short breaks in between just to wash his face and quench his thirst. The night fell and the stars decorated the dark sky. Beautiful! The stars, the trees, the birds, the crickets, they are there all the time, but we do not seem to notice them unless we're told that it's the last time. He sighed loudly when he remembered the doctor's prophecy that the old young man wouldn't be alive when summer arrives, at most.

This went on for around a week. The birds wondered: how can a young man be so skilful?! The squirrels wondered: How can an old man be able to persevere all these days alone in the forest?! And they both Oohed and Aahed when they saw the amazing work of art. A cement tree! Cement branches with cement leaves with carved veins. He made a hole that crossed the diameter of the trunk and as the spring breeze oozed through it and played a magical tune like a sound from heaven.

He carved some sentences all around the trunk.
“Hopefully, you will be having a relaxing break from the hectic life out there and will be lured by the cement flute in here to find me laying dead. Don't panic! Don't worry! Just bury me here. Make this cement tree my cemetery. I never feared leaving. I feared not leaving a mark before I leave. There it stands; my mark, my fulfilment, my work of art, my passion that I was born with but only dared to carry out when I was about to die. I might have lived like all people do but I died differently. You still have a chance to “live” differently. Don't leave this clearance before the night falls and have a little conversation with the stars. They miss you. They will change your life. This tree knows no seasons. It will stand and sing all year long. Peace.”