The Book of Elijah Knight

Asher's Tree  

  From my living room, Asher, our one year old son, balances against the backrest of the dark, mahogany handcrafted Italian wing chair. The bright white silk fabric displaying golden Fabergé eggs and the carefree stains of primary colours from errant window markers and dripping freezees that rests against the living room window.  

Stretching his toes away from their tips on my leg, Asher is rooting himself, ostensibly hoping it will give him the leverage he needs. He is trying to see the top of the pine tree. He twists his head slightly to the right, his light brown locks gilded in the golden dusk of twilight, gently tickling my chin like a sprinkling of pixie-dust; eventually losing his balance, regaining it only as ear presses against chest and in turn heart against lobe. He can’t see the top of the tree.  

The evergreen stands tall, swaying to the elements, the wind leans in 

whispering something cruel where the tree shies away from its vulgarity; waving its wispy fingers rough and dry from the authoritative years that rain and sun have exacted upon it. Excited rows of birds clatter - auburn finches, darkening nuthatches, browning doves and strange small blackbirds with emerald rings around their necks - pushing the branches that hold so much life further down. 

Asher can’t see that the tree has reached its zenith, it can not grow anymore, like a cathedral in the heart of ages past, marking the highest point in the community before industry and mass production raced tilted to the sky. Out of habit, the tree still stretches tall towards the sun, its long bandy limbs outstretched trying to catch any stray rays, the top of the tree still, its tiny tip extended like a tongue trying to catch drops of sunshine. 

Fully outstretched, the tree’s scars are exposed, bulbs where past branches once protruded but now amputated are covered up by bulging, dark brown knots. Sometimes these past limbs are not lost at the joint, which makes for excellent perches - to Asher’s delight – as dark black squirrels gleaming their mink-like fur, swirl their tails wildly. 

The wild doves now gathering along the power line must think it queer from above, to see such a mixed crowd amongst such a non-descript tree. Proud, the doves peek from underneath prickled pinions and untidy downy flake, coolly hiding their curiosity while carefully moving closer together, their wings secretly clasping together for strength, tufted neatly, their heads like buttons; the single black piping around its neck – cushioned in the sky. 

The tree wears the burden of time poorly, its branches near ground, propped up and immobile; strewn ragged, no longer stretching to the heavens, instead choosing to fall to their sides limp and lifeless like a broken, damaged marionette.  

Between the branches, far-off, there is a majestic tree, the only one of its kind, it must look like a giant spear of broccoli to Asher; its lush green foliage and dark seams, giving it texture beneath the blue sky, immortalized among the oak and the bouquet of mixed maples. This tree is likely as old as Asher’s tree, acting like an enormous lung, it swells and decompresses more like a heart, pumping life to its extremities through its branch-like veins and the world around which may outlive us all - must think the other trees. 

Asher stretches from his tiptoes against his father’s leg, leaning against his chest trying to see the top of the tree which should be craning its neck towards heaven. Respectfully, the tree bows down, twisting, lowering its open, outstretched branches; reaching down towards a heaven; basking in a light unseen; a breath seldom felt; exposing all life to Asher’s delight which may outlive us all.