Frangipani by Tracy Bell

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Frangipani

The energy of a soul manifests itself in many more forms than one could possibly imagine. When a person assumes their new form will be active and find themselves a stationary creature, they prepare for a lifetime of loneliness-- or so I would have thought.
For me, as I passed on I dreamed of being a swift, darting about in the evening sun. I would have a tittering cry like a child's laughter yet instead I found myself less than amused to find not only could I not stretch my wings, I had no wings to stretch.
There atop a hill stood a lonely frangipani tree. That was me. One hundred and Forty Springs ago I sprouted from the earth, feeling stationary, unable to move or see. Worst of all, I was unable to speak.
It wasn't all bad, however. The wonderful thing about being a tree was my ability to hear the whole world around me. I could hear where the wind came from, and the tiny ants drumming antennae against my sapling skin. I could hear the sun beating down on my verdant leaves and the rustling sounds of caterpillars feasting upon my abundant foliage. I could hear every bird that had ever been in my branches, the crows that bent my boughs so far down I feared they would break. I could hear the soft patter of rain, tears from the angels weeping for our souls. But I could not speak.
One morning, I heard the first blooms of the season slide open, like tiny rusty hinges grating, rasping almost inaudibly. I could hear the wild, sultry scent of them, calling the bees in their droning language. As I listened I heard an unfamiliar sound that I later learned to be footsteps. I could hear something nearing, perhaps waiting to pluck a bloom from me (as they were always for the taking) or just smell them... or even hear them. I was curious to find that this entity did neither.
"I am but one man, do you understand tree?" the creature spoke. It was a man. I wanted to nod, I wanted to agree, just to speak to him, and answer the tinge of sorrow in his voice.
He sat beneath my lowest branch, for a moment puzzled by the scent, and then brightened himself by noticing that I was a flowering tree.
He spoke of love, he spoke of loss, of desires, of impossibilities, of hopelessness, of brokenness, of shattered dreams, of sadness, of stale tears and wine and for hours I just listened, and every now and then the wind granted me an acknowledging nod. Then the man perked and looked up into my canopy.
"It's almost as if you're listening to me, beautiful tree." He laughed, amused at the idea.
I heard him pat my trunk firmly and close his eyes. His eyelashes rasped against his skin as he thought to himself.
"Very well then...Be well, beautiful tree" and he walked away.
I listened to night descend almost immediately. The day sounds turned to night sounds, of stealthy owls and creaking crickets. I could hear the stars in a clear sky, Pleiades was right above me tonight. For the first time I noticed the existence of memory. I ran through all the thoughts the man had spoken; I remembered the sound of his firm hand on my trunk and the heady silence that followed.