I DIED THEREFORE I AM
A Short Story by Danny Ninal
Prologue
“Strauss, are they cutting me now? Are they felling me now? Please, I don’t want to die,” Trish the Tree called her best friend for help.
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“Trish, don’t you worry. It’s not you. It’s not you that they are cutting,” Strauss the Bench assured his best friend.
“Are you sure, Strauss?” Trish was frantic; she was in total panic. She listened to the chainsaw noise which became louder and louder every minute.
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“Look all around you, Trish. All trees around you have dead branches. The branches are likely to snap off and fly through the air if you fall on those trees. These flying limbs are called widow-makers. Cutters avoid these, Strauss explained. “So if they cut you, the only logical direction of the fall is towards me. And they wouldn’t allow you to drop right on top of the most intelligent bench on this park. You feel me, Trish?”
Trish was quiet, unsure of what to say.
“If they want to cut you, the first thing they do is to clear a working space around your butt and prepare an escape path. Then they do a brushing out, or clip off small brushes close to the ground,” Strauss explained as clearly as he could. He continued, “But, they are not doing any of that to you. Understand? So don’t worry, they are not felling you. You feel me, Trish?”
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For a moment her simple mind was trying to comprehend the complicated things on her head. She looked down. Then she saw what they were doing to her friend, Twigee, a few meters away. It was when she stopped trembling that she started shouting,
”Ttwig g-g-g-g-gee-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
Three years later.
The park was at its best in twilight when the crepuscular rays were radiating from behind the trees in the park. It looked heavenly, peaceful, and absolutely breath-taking. At times, the orange light of the sky provided the magnificent backdrop of nature’s magic. In contrast to the green leaves, the rays are turning imperceptibly from yellow to orange to red.
“Look how blissful it is to see God’s creation!” Strauss said.
“Wow, Sir, it’s the most extraordinary thing I’ve ever seen,” Bob said excitedly like an 8-year old boy looking at his favorite toy train.
“Wait until the sun is right behind the top branches of my friend, Trish,” Strauss said.
“Trish? Who’s Trish, sir?” asked Bob.
“That tall and magnificent tree right in front of me. She’s Trish,” said Strauss as if he’s introducing his girlfriend to his younger brother.
“I heard that. You’re talking about me again, Strauss,” Trish the Tree shouted as she swayed gracefully her branches and leaves, allowing the wind to go wherever it carried them through.
“Hi Trish, meet our new FB (friend-bench), Bob,” Strauss introduced the young bench. “He has just been installed this morning. No ribbon-cutting though, like they did to me.”
“And I haven’t been peed by a dog yet. Hahahahaha. Hello Ma’am, nice meeting you,” Bob’s laughter echoed throughout the park.
Trish thought for a while, and carefully chose her words to the newbie, “Nice to meet you too, Bob,” she said, wondering what it was that looked very familiar about the young bench.
“Sir Strauss, why do trees grow so tall and still stand?” Bob asked while looking high up on Trisha’s top which was emblazoned by the orange clouds behind her.
“The answer is not up there, young one. It’s down below. You’re like looking at the right page but on the wrong book,” Straus said.
“What do you mean, sir?” Bob did not expect that reply.
“Form follows function,” said Strauss.
“You’re too intelligent for me, sir,” and Bob did not expect that one either, he was bewildered.
“Roots, my man, roots. The answer is in the roots,” Bob explained. “They gather nutrients from the soil, and they support the weight of the top growth of the tree.
“Some primary roots extend almost as deep as the height of the tree,” Strauss continued his lecture, “And they have what are called secondary “feeder” roots, which often extend far beyond a tree’s drip line.”
“What is a drip line?” Bob asked.
“A drip line is the imaginary line around the tree where water drips off the perimeter of its canopy.
“What you can’t see, Bob” Trisha interrupted, “is that roots of trees are almost always, um, intertwined with each other.”
Bob thought about how strong a bond must there be between trees whose roots are intertwined. He can feel a deep sense of familiarity in that feeling. Something he can’t seem to figure out, yet.
“Are your actions, Bob, predicated upon your roots,” Strauss asked.
“If you’re asking whether I know my roots, sir, yes I believe I do,” Bob replied to what he thought was a diversionary tactic by Strauss.
“Do you, therefore, prefer to be where your roots are? Would you be happy if you’re reconnected, um, to your roots?” added Trisha.
“Yes, to both questions, Ma’am. I would really be happy,” Bob replied.
“For reasons, I cannot say as of yet, can I ask your opinion about cutting trees?” Strauss asked the young bench.
“Sir, I think it is not the cutting itself that is wrong, but it is the way they are cutting the trees, that is not right.”
“You’re not as dumb as I thought you are,” Strauss complimented.
“Inexperienced perhaps, but not dumb, Sir,“ Bob rationalized.
“I agree,” Strauss said.
“That I am not dumb, Sir?” Bob asked.
“That, too. But I also strongly believe that if trees are made for something, a bench maybe, then the only way to make a wooden bench is to cut a tree.”
“I die, therefore I am,” Bob philosophized.
“Are you guys talking about my butt again?”
Both men winked at each other and smiled.
“Good old oaks that we are, know a good butt when we see one, hahaha,” Strauss said.
“Strauss, you dirty old oak. I come from a well-bred family of cedars. Careful, there are young cedars all around.
“Sir, can I ask you a question?” Bob whispered.
“We would be sitting here for the rest of our lives, so we might as well get to know each other well. I feel you, man. Go ahead,” Strauss said.
“I see a trunk cut and some dead branches which were snapped off not so long ago. What happened to the tree?” Bob asked. He was curious, whether there was a tree planting project to replace the tree that was cut.
“Some story, that was. A long story that you don’t want Trisha to be reminded of,” Strauss said.
“We have a lifetime ahead of us, Sir. You can start from the beginning,” Bob insisted.
“Three years ago, one summer morning, when the joggers were gone, and people started passing by, with coffee in one hand, and newspaper on the other, they came,” Bob started to tell the story.
“Who are they, Sir?” Bob asked.
“It started with two people, with yellow hardhats. They stopped right in front of Trisha, then they sat down and spread a huge sheet of paper, and started pointing all over the park.”
Bob, sat there quietly as Strauss continued his narrative, almost whispering to avoid Trisha from hearing it.
“Then one stood up and went to Trish, looked around her, pointed at the dead branches all around the other trees, then pointed at me, and then sat back with the other one,” Strauss, raised his hand to stop Bob from interrupting.
“Then the other one stood up and went to the friend of Trish, a matured tree called Twiggee,” Bob said. “Then he walked around her, then pointed right at the spot where you are now. As he was walking back toward the other man, the guy took his radio and said something on it.
“I didn’t have to know what they were talking about because a few minutes later more people came, with ropes, chainsaws, and more yellow hardhats,” Strauss was short of breath, as if he was sobbing, to which he would never admit.
“Is that it?” Bob asked.
“No. In the afternoon, more equipment came, and more hardhats arrived. The park was closed to the people, so I couldn’t hear anyone talking, and the chainsaw was starting to sound really scary,” Straus continued. And I agree with you that there is nothing wrong with the cutting of the trees, but it is the way they are cutting it which is wrong.”
“Yes, Sir, indeed,” there is no stopping Bob from interrupting. “They have to plant new trees before they cut some. Inasmuch as I believed the only way a bench, like us, will only exist by a death of a tree like Trish. Like one has to die for another one to live.”
“You sound like a minister, but yes, I agree,” Strauss said. “I have been here for years, and I never saw a new tree planted. Not one.” Strauss mumbled, “Although I see flowers and gardens made in strategic places.”
“They are beautiful Sir, I must admit,” Bob concurred.
“Yes, but we are talking about cutting trees now, and the beauty of the flowers will never compensate for the cutting of the tree,” Strauss argued.
Bob was quiet; he was in deep thought. He started looking around, and then he shivered.
“Was it a cedar, Sir, that they fell that day?” Bob asked.
“Yes, in fact, it was a cedar. Why?” Strauss became curious because of the change of mood of his new found friend, Bob.
“Well, sir, I think I saw the trunk. That must be Twiggee,” Bob added.
“Yes,” Strauss sobbed softly, unabashedly. And his thoughts were back to that fateful day when they came to cut Twiggee.
“In the mid-afternoon that summer day, the people with yellow hardhats stopped and sat down and ate their sandwiches,” Strauss continued his narration.
“Trish shouted at me like it was the end of the world. Not that she was used to shouting, but so I could hear her amidst the noise of the chainsaw.”
“Strauss, are they cutting me now? Are they felling me now? Please, I don’t want to die,” Trish the Tree called her best friend for help.
brum-brum-brum-brum-brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
“Trish, don’t you worry. It’s not you. It’s not you that they are cutting,” Strauss the Bench assured his best friend.
“Are you sure, Strauss?” Trish was frantic; she was in total panic. She listened to the chainsaw noise which became louder and louder every minute.
brum-brum-brum-brum-brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
“Look all around you, Trish. All trees around you have dead branches. The branches are likely to snap off and fly through the air if you fall on those trees. These flying limbs are called widow-makers. Cutters avoid these, Strauss explained. “So if they cut you, the only logical direction of the fall is towards me. And they wouldn’t allow you to drop right on top of the most intelligent bench on this park. You feel me, Trish?”
Trish was quiet, unsure of what to say.
“If they want to cut you, the first thing they do is to clear a working space around your butt and prepare an escape path. Then they do a brushing out, or clip off small brushes close to the ground,” Strauss explained as clearly as he could. He continued, “But, they are not doing any of that to you. Understand? So don’t worry, they are not felling you. You feel me, Trish?”
brum-brum-brum-brum-brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
For a moment her simple mind was trying to comprehend the complicated things on her head. She looked down. Then she saw what they were doing to her friend, a few meters away. It was when she stopped trembling that she started shouting,
”T-t-t-t-t-t-twig g-g-g-g-gee-e-e-e-e-e-e!”
“Strauss, they’re cutting Twiggee. I’m feeling her roots shaking now.”
That day there were no crepuscular rays radiating from the sun, but blood-coloured trunk and timber lying all around what used to be Twiggee.”
Strauss saw tears and knew Bob was crying. He didn’t stop him. He waited, just like what he’d do when people sit on him and cried ever so softly.
Then after a while, Trish noticed, and said, “Bob, are you crying?”
“I know that was a sad story, Bob,” Strauss said. “But I didn’t realize it was so tragic that it made you shed tears. Oaks don’t cry man, they just sob.”
“Sir, I was treated three years ago. Just a few meters away from here,” Bob said haltingly.
“So?” Strauss asked.
“I am a cedar, Sir,” Bob said. “I am not an oak.”
Both Trish and Strauss looked at each other, and almost simultaneously looked at the trunk when Twiggee used to be.
All Strauss could say was a banality, “Welcome home, man.”
THE END
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