Ragged bark

My ragged bark streaked with tears, with ashes, and with paint.

Long ago, the paint came first.

It happened when the woman came to paint me. Not to paint on me, but to make a portrait of me. Or at least, I think that's what she was doing. The blonde sat opposite me, looking up every half a minute, earnestly scrutinising me, focusing on every detail. It made me feel a bit shy, but I quite liked it.

She frequently came to the forest to paint. Sometimes it was the sunset, or the sunrise, or the night sky, or an animal, or the little creek with crystal-clear water running near me. It never occurred to me that I was something worthy of being painted. I'm the oldest tree around here, and I'm not exactly as elegant as I once was.

I suppose it never crossed her mind that I might want to see the end product, because she didn't show it to me. It must have looked quite nice; her son really liked it.

He announced his arrival with a distant war-cry, that slowly got louder, followed by a squeal.

"Oooh Mummy, Mummy, are you painting?" The child asked, running to her.

"Jacob, what are you doing here? You'll catch a cold without your jumper."

He slipped his tiny fist into hers.

"Ooooh, did you paint that tree? It looks so real!"

Her eyes immediately crinkled at the side.

"You like it, hmm? Come on, I'm done anyway. Let's go back to the house," she got up with a little difficulty and a drawn out sigh, and accidentally knocked a bottle of paint over. The orange splashed against my bark.

"Oops," she said, not noticing the paint on me and trying to clean the ground. She watered the paint off the grass and then cleared away her equipment, preparing to leave.

The painter handed Jacob her artwork, who studied it in wonder as they walked home.

The tears came second.

He was a young man, and he was obviously lost. Lost people have a certain look in their eye.

It didn't seem to bother him much, that he was lost. He simply walked around aimlessly, until he stumbled upon me, and absentmindedly gave me a small kick.

Not the most polite form of greeting, but a greeting nonetheless.

He leaned against me and groaned, sliding down until he was crouched on the damp, grassy ground. He started picking off loose bits of bark.

Then, he buried his head in his hands and cried. Now, I've seen every type of cry, and I recognised this one immediately. It was the sort of gentle cry that you suddenly break into when you're exhausted with life.

"He hates me," he sobbed. He might have been talking to me, so I listened.

"He doesn't want me, Mum just dumped me with him. Apparently looking after me is too much, so he just goes and drinks his way to oblivion to forget about me. It's my fault."

He turned to lean his cheek against me, and started picking at the streak of orange paint that the lady had spilt on to me over a year ago.

"I thought enlisting would mean I could forget about him, but now I'm just worried tha-"

He was interrupted by a far-off yell. A boy with a slight Irish accent was angrily calling for him.

"JOHNSON! JOHNSON! LIAM JOHNSON! "

My new friend scrambled to get up and wiped his tears with his sleeve.

A bunch of young adults arrived at the scene, caked in mud and looking like they wanted to collapse. The one with the Irish accent proved to be their leader.

"Johnson! Tell me, what is the meaning of this?"

"Sorry, sir, I... I got lost."

"Get back in line. A member of the Royal Marines keeps their head screwed on. Have you got that?"

The way he said 'Royal Marines' with such pride, I guessed him to be the type of person who sang 'God Save the Queen' in the shower.

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, we look for a place to sleep, and some food." And with that, he jogged off, leaving the others to follow him wearily.

That was not the last I saw of Liam. He came back every week for the next three months, telling me everything while picking at the paint.

One day, he told me it was his last week of training - and sure enough, I didn't see him again for the next decade.

And finally, the ashes.

At least, they haven't arrived yet, but they might.

A young woman is surveying the area, and when she comes across me - weather beaten, streaked with paint and bark cracked up - she walks up to me. Perhaps she can feel the stories I've seen.

She leans forward, her hand resting on me, and looks me up and down.

"Ah, we'll be getting rid of all this just next week. I'll be sorry to see you go. It's just too bad."

I think it's too bad, too.

"I just... I don't wanna be the bad guy. But I am. But, I mean... I need to, it's my job. It's not my fault. The town needs more space and all."

Who else's fault was it, I wondered.

"You know, when I got into this, I actually thought I'd be helping to save the planet. Y'know, build stuff from renewable energy and all that. Didn't think I'd need to clear a forest out."

I felt pity for her. One has to make a living, after all.

"I try make up for it, avoid plastic and all that. But I still feel bad. You kinda look like you got a lotta stories to tell. It'll really be a bummer."

She takes one last look at me, and then goes off.

I watch her disappear, knowing that her plan won't be so easy. What she doesn't know but will soon enough find out, is that every Sunday, there is a protest.

The painter and her family, the marine and his friends, and hundreds of others that come to talk to me, cry with me, laugh with me, play near me, draw me. They all come to protest, every week.

I cling to hope.