He and the Tree

That afternoon he apologized to the only tree in the company parking lot
which sheltered his car from the sun. He wanted to make amends for his grandpa
who owned the palm oil company, for his family who believed a carpenter
was the son of god. The tree began to weep and think of his childhood friend,
ripped from the ground because he was “too close to the foundation.”
From afar they would check on each other and wink and dream about being grownup:
the birds and butterflies would alight on their branches and leafbuds
and would help them send each other messages back and forth.
The tree regretted not telling his friend he loved him.
He wanted to bring him to a church. At the altar they would be joined together
before god, who had three branches—like a tree—and their children would fill
the parking lot, every square inch, so that one day everyone who passed by
would think a forest had sprung up in the middle of the city. The man hugged the tree,
the tree hugged the man.


Norman Erikson Pasaribu