Just a Tree

The gel for the ultrasound was much warmer than Danny had anticipated, especially on his groin. His brain initially braced for a cold snap. Now, it was rifling through what he ate for breakfast (toast), his 10 a.m. meeting (could be an email), and even that time he went on a beach vacation with his grandparents (just…no)—anything to avoid an awkward crescendo with the professional technician doing her job. 

Danny’s 36th birthday came and went without significance. He and his wife had a very nice dinner at Fifth Avenue Italia where she gave him a very nice gift that was soon followed by some very nice sex. It was, for all intents and purposes, a good evening. The very nice would be exceptional for some, including Danny and Camille from 11 years earlier. They were both still incredibly in love, but some sideways smiles at dinner felt occupational as time marched forward. The most engaging conversation at dinner was about Danny now needing regular checks for testicular cancer. Proof positive of the normality of their everlasting affection. 

Danny obliged in her endearing concern, leading to his laying in the dark radiology suite. By the time his brain made it to gory horror movie kills, the technician wiped him off and said he was good to go. He must have hyped the appointment up more than necessary, but the nonchalance was unexpected. “Uh, well, thank you,” he said, shuffling on his pants and looking at her name badge. “Thank you, Mona.”

The technician stopped cleaning her equipment and tilted her head toward Danny like he had eaten a sandwich out of the trash. “Yeah, you’re welcome,” she said. “You should have the results within a few hours. I’ll give you some privacy.” 

Danny had gone into the appointment without much concern. He thought he was somewhat healthy. He could take the stairs without issue and drank one, maybe two bottles of water every day. In his mind, he had cleared the bar enough. Though walking out of the hospital 30 minutes later, and most likely hundreds of dollars poorer, there was a feeling he could not shake. What if it was positive? What if it was positive and, worse yet, aggressive?

He sat behind the wheel of his car as his mind began to race. He began to speculate about what the headline of his obituary would read. He is survived by his loving wife, Camille, their two cats, his parents, John and Marie, and two brothers, whose most profound shared conversations were about sports. He wondered how many people would show up to the funeral. He questioned if they would cry. He wasn’t sure if he’d earned that.

Everyone would move on with life, though he couldn’t blame them. He had done the same with grandparents, family friends, and vague acquaintances. Some were more difficult to accept than others. But upon reflection, Danny hoped he was worth more than guiltily sticking a heart reaction onto a social media eulogy. However, he had done precisely that more than he wanted to admit.

His parents would be sad, but they would have two other boys to help fill the void (small or large?) in their hearts. His wife would remarry after saying she never would, no matter how true it would be every time she said it. He would tell her it didn’t matter to him, which was also true. She deserved happiness that the entire world could not provide. Who gave it to her was not as relevant in Danny’s eyes. He was lucky to get to try as long as possible.

The cats never liked him as much as he loved them. He was already a distant memory to them once they finished their dinner. Adorable as they might be, they were both pricks quite often. Yet they say pets take on their owners' personalities, so were they a weird mirror for Danny after all? He shook his head for a reset and began driving, deciding that one was probably just them being cats.

He pulled into his parking spot at work after being on autopilot. He didn’t remember if he stopped at the usual red lights or turned on his turn signal when necessary. Though many mornings not quite as existential were like that after a decade of routine. 

Danny had been working in corporate search engine optimization for eight years. When someone would ask him what he did, the prevailing response was often, “Oh yeah, I know Google.” He didn’t care enough to go into detail, so his response of a well-practiced smile and “yeah, you got it” paired like wine and cheese.

It was not the type of work that garnered excitement from many. He cared little about his name being in lights for his work, but helping companies gain favor from an algorithm was not the stuff of Nobel laureates. He was unsure if what he was doing made a difference. If it did, was it a positive one? The machine would keep churning without him either way. Within months, people would be snapping their fingers trying to remember the name of that-guy-in-SEO who brought pre-packaged frosted cookies to the holiday parties. 

Danny had friends and close colleagues but questioned whether he had done enough for them. He was never the best man at anyone’s wedding. He was never the first choice for a night out. He knew he could have done a better job putting himself out there, but that level of vulnerability is hard—damn hard—even when he knew no one would care. After some brief small talk and bell curves of productivity, he grabbed his lunch and decided he needed fresh air. 

He often ate his lunch in the break room. Most days, Danny slumped into the slightly more comfortable seating and propped his phone on a stack of magazines to watch YouTube videos. Headphones were snugged into his ears as a shield from pleasantries. But his brain was not having a typical day, so it called for an atypical lunch setup. He broke the confinement of the gray corporate walls and ventured outside.

As the oxygen filled his lungs, Danny found an empty bench that stared into a small park near the office building. “Nearby greenery!” was plastered on the company’s website to recruit new employees, but the grass of mid-autumn looked back at him with a coffee-stained smile. Brisk air whipped slowly around the flaps of his jacket as he sat down, pulling out his mundane ham sandwich with a sigh.

Across from him was the large tree he could see from their conference room. An impressive number of multicolored leaves still held strong to their home while ignoring the cyclical breeze. Under the tree, a woman a few years younger than him attacked a sketchbook with tenacity. She, too, donned headphones. Danny guessed hers screamed speed metal into her ears with every pencil stroke. While her hand moved with pace, he was surprised she was not drawing with anger but rather with intention. The woman’s face featured bright eyes, a coy smile, and a slightly determined bob to the music reverberating through her head. She was entirely at peace. 

Good for her, he thought. She appeared to know exactly who she wanted to be in that moment and was creating something that made her feel good. The tree was giving her a place to do that. It was providing her support as she leaned on its sturdy base. Its determined leaves offered a plaid pattern of shade from the apex of the midday sun. Whether it was an oak, a redwood, or a sycamore was irrelevant. The tree was not asking to be remembered, but if that piece of art was her gateway to becoming the next Frida Kahlo, it would live in her memory forever. 

Danny’s trance into the tree bark created a crystallizing moment: he was so consumed with how he would be remembered that he overlooked the moments worth remembering.

The tree was like everyone else. It had moments of thriving spliced between the moments of surviving. Not everyone would remember what that tree did for them or anything about the tree at all. But to those for whom that tree meant something, it would be special to them forever. It was not about being forgotten but about knowing who would keep the tree in their memories.

Danny’s life was about more than listing his accomplishments. Worrying about an obituary seemed trivial. After all, the odds were that those would move from valued printed remembrances to sad lip-synched dances in a few years. He may not win a Pulitzer Prize or solve world hunger when the fateful time comes, but the people whose opinions he valued didn’t care if he achieved either. They just wanted him to be happy and present, which was painstaking to realize how obvious that had been for a while.

His concentration broke when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out to find a sequence of numbers he didn’t know with Maybe: Falls General Hospital scrolling above them. Danny was more nervous about the call than when he woke up that morning, but he was also more prepared for what came after the results. He slid the arrow to answer the call as a single brown leaf floated down from the clouds.

To so many, Danny was just a tree. But to some, he was more than that. That was beginning to be ok.