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They don’t ask if I remember.
They think I’m just a tree—
bark, leaves, and silence.
But I do.

I remember.

Before roads,
before fences,
before the wooden swing on my lowest branch—
I was already here,
waiting.

Not for anything in particular.
Just rooted.
Listening.

And they came.

The boy arrived first.
No shoes,
knees scraped,
eyes wide.

He ran in like he owned the field
and sat at my base,
panting as if he’d outrun something heavy.

He came often.
Sometimes to cry,
sometimes to laugh.

One summer,
he carved a heart into my side:
L + M.

I bled,
but I didn’t mind.

We trees grow around pain.
That’s what makes us strong.

Over the years,
more came.

A girl with a red ribbon
who read me poems about cities and stars.
She’d tuck her toes under my roots
and whisper verses
like secrets meant only for us.

I still remember her voice—
small but certain.

A couple argued beneath my limbs
for an hour
before falling silent.
He stood.
She stayed.

She came back once,
alone,
traced the bark with her fingers
and left something folded in a plastic bag
at my base.

It’s still there.

I never opened it.

I don’t need to.
I know what it means
to leave something behind.

A man buried a dog near my trunk
without a word.
He dug with his hands,
tears cutting through dirt and sweat.
When he finished,
he leaned his head on me
and stayed until the wind picked up.

I felt the weight
he left behind.

I’ve watched generations pass.
Children become parents.
Laughter become memory.

I’ve seen first kisses
and final goodbyes.
Hearts tangled and untangled.

Not all who come speak.
But they all say something—
in the way they sit,
how they lean,
what they choose to leave behind.

They don’t believe trees remember.
But I do.

Not in words—
in rings.
In the slow circles we grow
year after year.

Every ring holds
a season of someone.

Their joy.
Their sorrow.
Their silence.

Now the road runs closer.
Engines replace voices.
Few come anymore.

But I wait,
like I always have.

I am not just a tree.
I am a keeper.
A witness.
A companion to all
who had no one else
but sky and roots.

Someday, I’ll fall.
By storm or blade,
I’ll be brought down.

If they slice me open,
they’ll see only rings.

But I’ll still see
her poems,
his quiet tears,
the swing that creaked in the wind
long after the child had gone inside.

I was never just standing.

I was listening.

And I remember.
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