The Cottonwood Tree

He towered over the sidewalk. He had more branches than he could count and a canopy of thick, green leaves. It took six people to wrap their arms around him; at least, that’s what it said on the plaque they'd planted right next to his trunk. He couldn’t remember the last time any humans had hugged him.

His friends—Douglas and Pine and Juniper—used to call him Cottonwood. The men had cut down Cottonwood’s friends long ago, when the cars started to grow and the planes started to fly. Cottonwood could barely remember his friends and that thought alone made his branches droop terribly. His friends had stood by his side for hundreds of years, back when the deer use to nap under their leaves.

Cottonwood hadn’t seen a deer in a long time.

Buildings surrounded Cottonwood now. They shimmered when the sunlight hit their windows and they almost seemed to touch the sky. Cottonwood felt a bit miffed at that; he used to be able to see all the way to the horizon. He couldn’t remember the last time he watched a sunrise.

And the noise! Honestly, what Cottonwood missed the most was the quiet. He’d watched as the horse carriages turned into cars that screamed and skidded. He remembered the quiet symphony of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Now, every waking moment seemed to be filled with the loud squabbling of voices, buzzing and buzzing and buzzing until Cottonwood couldn’t hear himself think.

Cottonwood knew it was only a matter of time before they took him away, too. They had leeched the green from around him until not even a shrub sprouted from the ground. All he got was a small patch of grass to stand on.

“Hello, Cottonwood!” said a voice in his leaves.

“Sparrow! You’re up early.”

“Can’t catch a wink with the cacophony around here, eh?”

“You could say that again,” huffed another voice near his roots.

“Good morning to you, Beetle!” hummed Cottonwood.

“It’s not a good morning until I say it is,” barked Beetle.

Sparrow jumped to another branch. “It’s always a good morning when the sun is out!” she tweeted.

A pattering of feet suddenly scurried up Cottonwood’s trunk and he giggled.

“Stop, Squirrel, you know that tickles!”

“Hello, hello!” chatted Squirrel. “Where’s the food? Where’s the food?”

“Go scavenge for yourself, rodent,” growled Beetle.

“Nonsense!” sang Sparrow. “Up here, Squirrel! I picked up a few crumbs!”

“You could drop a few, you know,” said Beetle.

“Thought we were all scavenging for ourselves?” said Cottonwood slyly.

“Easy for you to say—you eat air!” snapped Beetle.

“Friends! Why the long faces? Here’s a few crumbs, Beetle!”

Cottonwood breathed in the sun and smiled as he listened to his friends. It was moments like these that made Cottonwood think that life wasn’t all that bad.

But then Sparrow would fly away to look for more food and Squirrel would scurry away with her. Beetle would return underground, and Cottonwood was left alone once again.

He sighed as the sun began to set. The days were growing shorter. Cottonwood shivered and curled his branches as a bitter wind swept through his leaves. A few fell to the ground.

***

The next morning, Cottonwood woke with the sun and waited for his friends to arrive. Beetle was first; he dug out of the ground next to the plaque and yawned.

“Morning, Beetle!” said Cottonwood. He watched a little boy run over to the plaque.

“Look, Mom! It’s the oldest tree in the city!”

The mother peeked over her son’s head at the plaque and then gasped.

“Ew!” she shouted, pointed at Beetle on the ground.

The boy jumped into action. He stomped on Beetle and twisted his foot into the ground just for good measure. The boy and his mother hurried off, and Cottonwood watched in horror as Beetle’s brutalized body twitched, and then was still.

Squirrel came second. “Food?” he asked, sniffing around Cottonwood’s roots. “Food?”

“Out of here, pest!”

A man threw a newspaper at Squirrel, who squeaked in terror and sprinted away before Cottonwood could call him back. The newspaper blew away with the next gust of wind.

Sparrow came last. She landed in Cottonwood’s branches.

“Where are Beetle and Squirrel?” she asked.

Cottonwood told her what happened, and they mourned together.

“Cottonwood, I’m afraid I bring more bad news,” she said quietly. “I must leave for the winter. We’re going south.”

Cottonwood’s trunk creaked as he bowed his head. He remembered standing with Douglas and Pine and Juniper, watching the flocks soar overhead.

“I’m sorry, Cottonwood,” she murmured.

“Don’t apologize, Sparrow. You’re doing what you must,” he said forlornly.

Sparrow nuzzled her head against Cottonwood’s trunk in parting and sang a somber song as she flew away.

***

And so Cottonwood returned to his sorrowful existence. He watched the cars speed down the streets and the humans hurry past, not even bothering to give his plaque a glance. He listened to the honking and the beeping, to the rhythm of the helicopter blades as they whirred overhead, to the constant clattering of construction. He shivered as his leaves began to litter the ground.

He thought about Douglas and Juniper and—and—what was the last one? Pat or Paul or something. He thought about Beetle and his untimely murder. He thought about the panic and fear in Squirrel’s eyes as he scampered away from the horrible man with the newspaper. He wondered where Sparrow was and if she was happy. He pictured her sitting in the branch of another tree and tried to bury his jealousy.

How he wished for just a flash of green. But even the blades of grass around his roots began to brown after a while. The air turned dry and cold.

The men came right as the snow began to fall, and trimmed many of his branches. Cottonwood wept; he’d lost so much already, and now he was cold and as bare as the buildings around him. His friends would have laughed at how silly he looked.

But they were gone, and he was alone.