Bęcławski 1
Maciej Bęcławski
English 202
Instructor: W.B. Connolly
October 22, 2018
The Tree
The tree alienates itself from the monotonous, gray, village surroundings. It contradicts the simplicity of the buildings enclosing it from the South and West, with its complexity – a mother nature's masterpiece. Thick slithering branches covered with leaves as green as a one dollar bill. There is a barn nearby, and a few smaller trees making a way for a huge forest far away.
It is old and devastated. In spite of what is looks like, it is still standing strong on its one foot; it is preserved well enough to build a treehouse on it. The tree has stood here for many years, nearly forgotten by men. Just like the barn, through whose open spaces shoot beams of August sunlight. Nearby goes a road that has not seen asphalt yet, and is not meant to see it in the nearest future. The day is so lousy that no one occupies the the road, not even a cow. Everything seems to be fallen asleep; time stopped... Nevertheless something clashes with this natural, quiet state -- a man climbing the tree, higher and higher.
He is in his twenties, which seems like nothing compared to the three hundred years of the giant, just like a blink of an eye; a moment in which the giant stood on his one foot, bending with every blow of the wind. Back then it had looked like a drunk man, caught by police, trying to keep the balance, standing on one foot.
Climbing brings him some kind of weird enjoyment. He stops eventually, sitting on one of the branches, letting his legs hang loose. A grim smile is visible on his face, accompanied by a vacant look in his eyes. It looks as if he is smiling to himself. He might be recalling some happy moments of his life. He is tired. His physical condition is not as good as it used to be. If he were a child again, it would take almost no effort to get as high on the tree as he is now. He wishes he were a child again, when he was coming to play on this very same tree with his friends. The tree knows how rapidly things change. Not too many years ago the kid used to play with friends on the swing made of two ropes tied to one of its thick branches, connected at the bottom with a piece of wood so they could sit on it.
He, as well, must remember it clearly now, surely he does. He has a rope in front of his eyes, the piece of wood he can easily imagine. Once again he smiles like a child, but with a large dose of irony, and starts swinging. He looks almost as he did years ago, but the rope is tied around his neck. The wind is getting ready to shake the tree.