The Knotted Eye

My knotted eye has seen many things. I remember peering out at the world around me, watching squirrels jump from my branches to the branches of my brothers and sisters. Hearing nothing but sweet silence, accented by the rustling of leaves and chittering wildlife. I remember the first time I heard a human voice, the soft and gentle laughter of a child, climbing on my limbs to better see the world that surrounded them. 

THUD.

The sound of an axe breaking my bark, my soul cries out in silence as a man chips away at my life. He hacks through my phloem, my ancient transportation for nourishment, I am cut off from mother earth. I see the earth draw closer as I fall feeling empty and alone. My vision blocked by dirt and leaves, I wonder if I will get to see beauty ever again.

I am milled and cut into uniform rectangles. My beauty which once flowed in organized chaos has become rearranged to fit that of another’s standards. My eye watches a family sweating in the heat of the sun, working to construct a domicile out of my body. I am placed above an area in the home with a large black metal object that contains fire. I am terrified as I think back to wildfires that once raged through my woods, my home, and I remember seeing the destruction that fire caused. My fear is only subdued by the new life that sometimes comes from the ashes of the fire, new sprouts of other brothers and sisters reseeded by the flames which licked and scorched their forefathers.

My eye peers through smoke to see a new kind of beauty, a family of humans. They gather in front of my eye each night, weary from a day's work, and share a meal. They delight in simple things, tales of days past and dreams of the future. 

I am introduced to a new sound, a wail of pain. My eye stares out searching for the source. I see a woman, sweat on her brow, crying out for help. I can do nothing but watch. She struggles, the man is caressing her gently, trying to comfort her unfathomable pain. Next I hear a cry, but it is not coming from the woman. It’s coming from a small baby. She holds the child in her arms and cries tears of joy, as she peers down at the life she has created and brought into the world.

Years pass, as I watch the baby grow to a toddler and then to a small child. I watch their first steps, upright like their parents. One day, my eye is awoken by a new sensation. Someone is caressing my eye. I peer out and see the mother holding the baby to my eye, as the baby’s smooth fingers trace the outlines of my eye. I see the wonder on the babies face, I bask in the comfort of feeling seen for once. I hear the mother call me “God’s eye.” She explains to the child that I am always watching the comings and goings of the home. She says that I am lucky, and that my watchful eye will keep them safe. I have a new found purpose.

The child grows to be a man like his father. He leaves the house one day, and I do not see him for a long time. Every visit I am awoken by his gentle touch. I look at his face and see how he is being aged by the sun. He always looks at me with a curious gaze. As if searching for an answer in the twists and turns of my eye. But he always leaves me just the same, a gentle touch, a slight smile, and he is gone.

I watch as the parents grow old, wrinkled with age, they begin to shrink and move slowly. Sometimes I can hear them mention their child and how he has created a family of his own. I wonder if another eye is watching over his family.

The house grows silent. There is no more movement or sound. Only silence. Dust settles over my eye. I grow weary and tired, and sleep for longer and longer periods of time. 

I wake up to a familiar touch. I see my child, now a man, holding a little girl of his own. He takes her hand and traces the lines of my eye, retelling the story his mother once told him. Oh that I could weep like humans do, show some sign of life behind my eye, yet I know they feel my sentiment. As always, they leave again, and I sleep waiting for my next encounter.

I wake to the sound of moving. I try to find the source, but there is something blocking my view. I listen for years to the sounds of a family living in the home. Have they forgotten me? Years pass, and sounds fade with time. The house is silent still.

I am abruptly woken by the feeling of the sun on my eye. What a lovely warmth that I have missed for so long. I gaze out to see the eyes of the little girl, now aged as those of her grandmother. A tear in her eye, she touches mine with weary wrinkled hands. She caresses me as if caressing the face of an old friend long forgotten. I look for her father, the boy I watched come into this world, but he is nowhere to be found. She is alone. 

I watch her daily pattern, she moves slowly. I listen to her sobs of loneliness. She begins to speak to me. She asks me for advice, she wonders aloud at all that I have seen. Her hands touch the creases of my eye daily. She memorizes each groove and raised edge, appreciating the beauty that mother earth gave me. 

She sits back in her chair, staring at me for some time, until she falls into a deep slumber. She rises no longer. I am thrust into silence and darkness once again.