The Acorn and the Owl, A Short Short Story

A man sits at the base of a mighty tree. He stares down at a smattering of acorns, some whole and others broken, some harvested and some wasted. He remembers being a child, when he was unsure and, frankly, apathetic to what kind of tree this was, yet it still stands, taller, wiser, and well worn in every way.

Disease has tried over and over again to take it down, but each has failed. This tree that will have to be taken down from the inside, by a rot that eats away until the tree must give up. So far, the tree has stayed strong.

As a boy, he didn’t know how strong oaks are or that they could die or be taken down. He didn’t think anything had much potential for that kind of change. All he knew was that it made acorns, which meant squirrels were afoot.

He remembers how exciting it was to know that more was happening that he could see, that amidst a world so still, bugs were crawling, birds nesting, and squirrels were breaking and storing those little acorns for harder times. 

You never know how quickly things can change. 

Change is inevitable, a fact he finds truer now than ever. 

An owl is perched on a branch, eyes closed for some time. The man wishes they didn’t have that in common. Then, as though the owl can read his mind, it opens its eyes and stares at the smattering of acorns at the man’s feet.

The slightest snap follows a blur, and he looks down to see a freshly released acorn find a new resting place. It’s only remarkable in the fact that it is completely untouched. Otherwise, it blends in with the rest.

The owl remains stalwart, and the acorn remains silent, but their interaction flashes through the man’s mind.

***

“What will you do now that you are free?” asks the owl to the acorn.

“I can travel the world, go beyond this grassy hill, beyond the stone gate, and to the next hill, perhaps even farther.”

“Ah, yes, but you will have to decide when—or if—you will put down roots and become a tree. If you become a tree, you won’t be the same thing as you are. But if you stay as you are, you will never have the chance to become a tree, you will gallivant until you’ve deteriorated or been consumed by the creatures of this world.”

“Like you?”

“Oh no, child, I do not care for the taste of your kind, acorns are too nutty for me.”

“Then what do you know about me and my kind?”

“I know that you cannot be both an acorn and a tree. I’ve seen all sorts of trees and all sorts of seeds, acorns like you and trees so tall they seem to hold up the sky. I imagine it must take quite a foundation to hold up the sky.”

“That does sound noble, but what would I be missing if I crawled into the dirt right now?”

“What would you be gaining?”

“I suppose I would have the chance to make more acorns.”

“And they will get the same choice you have right now.”

“But the world is dangerous, as you say. Who’s to say my little acorns won’t be eaten by squirrels or carried away by birds or tromped on by man?”

“Don’t you desire to be carried away?”

“Well, yes, but that is different,” says the acorn

“Is it?”

“Yes, I will be carried about by something kind.”

“What about squirrels? Apparently, they’re nuts for nuts.”

“Squirrels will not want me. I am nothing special, and that is what makes me special. I will be overlooked long enough to have had my adventures. Then, I can come back and become a tree.”

“That is a great plan. How long will that take you?”

“As long as it does,” replies the acorn.

“Does that mean you want to be both an acorn and a tree? Should I explain this to you again?”

“No need, I will find a way. Maybe I will decide to stay an acorn forever. As a tree, it would be hard—impossible even to protect my acorns. As a tree, how can I do that? I will be stuck, unable to move, useless. How can I keep them from dying at my roots? And how can I live up to this tree that finally decided to release me? Does it even care what happens to me?”

“Surely it knows more than you do. Surely it wants the best for you.”

“Maybe what was best for it is not what’s best for me,” says the acorn.

“Is that also how your little acorns will feel? Will they want the same things you want?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t they?”

“This tree, as an acorn, might have once said the same things?”

“I think it knew what it wanted to be when it was an acorn. I do not.”

The owl twists its head, ever wise and ever thoughtful. “Perhaps it never decided and life decided for him? By now though, I believe it has stood long enough to know the answers. It wasn’t so long ago that you weren’t so sure yourself. And in time, your mind will change. That is why it is important to stand firm somewhere, on something. The longer you stay as you are, the less time you’ll get to be who you will be.”

“And who will that be?”

“It will be exactly what you want, nothing like you think, and many things you wish it wasn’t.”

“So, tell me, wouldn’t you—an owl who needs trees for life—want me to take root as soon as I can?”

“Take root now, take root tomorrow, wait until this tree that gave you life loses its own, what do I care? I am a hunter, and patient at that. I must be. I have learned that the longer you wait, the more you convince yourself that you’re right, all while hating yourself for waiting.”

“You are not very helpful.”

The owl would smile right now if it could. “Would you rather be told what to do and resent it, or resent yourself for the decisions you’ve made?”

“How should I know?” The young acorn says. 

The owl has nothing to say to the acorn. It’s head swivels, setting its eyes on a man.

A hand reaches down, and the acorn thinks, this is just the beginning.

***

The man picks up the acorn and stares at it. He squeezes it and finds it tougher than he thought. So he places it on the root of the tree, then places his dress show on it. He pushes so slightly as to feel every part of the acorn as it breaks apart. 

He leans against the tree. His dark suit coat hangs on the bark. Instead, he shimmies down utnil he’s seated on the exposed root, not even caring to see the mashed up pulp he’s left.