A year ago I was walking through the woods behind my house when I came across a tree, a twisted and contorted behemoth with shattered teeth for branches opening its maw to the sky. A grey and heavy sky hovered dangerously low, just barely clearing the treetops, the air groaning under its weight. It was obvious that the tree held some sort of significance as the rest of the forest faded away into an impressionist painting around it. Blotches of green and brown glowed in the background, fell back, and curved into the clearing. Walking up to it, I put my hand out and braced myself against the trunk. The cracks in the bark were far enough apart that I could spread out my hand and feel only the smooth coolness paper. The tree smelled like earth and the earth beneath smelled like leaves. A knot twisted in the back of my mind and I pulled out my pocketknife; faint cursive lettering on the side of the handle spelled out “Buck.” In a crude imitation I decided to leave my own “makers mark” and began to hack my name into the tree. Like those lovers names carved into a trees at the park, the ones framed in little hearts, except there was no heart, no second name, and definitely no park. I finished and stepped back to inspect my handiwork.
No, no, it was all wrong! I dug my knife back into the tree and began again. Another failure and another attempt – again and again. Sap coated my fingers and clogged the joint of the knife as I worked and reworked my name around the trunk.
Eventually I had completely girdled the tree with graffiti. Letters folded over each other in an unrecognizable band like a profane lexicon. I stepped back to admire my work. I couldn’t decide if it was hideous or beautiful. But as any horticulturist worth his salt would know, such an amount of bark removal is detrimental. I returned a month later to find the wooden monster dead.
None of that ever happened and I don’t know what it means. A few years from now I might look back and pretend I never did either.
***
‘Melodrama serves a purpose,’ I reasoned to myself as I prepared myself to do something equally stupid. I hadn’t slept the night before – what with the lack of thought screaming around in my head; keeping me up. I couldn’t think enough to distract myself.
She was pretty, I guess, but explaining my attraction in terms of her red lipstick seemed superficial. The tense excitement in my gut was more than the faint scent of her perfume – a warm embrace reminiscent of freshly baked cookies – or her elegant slim figure.
Melodrama came in the form of a passing smile, biting her lip in conversation, as we talked about the most trivial aspects of our lives. It came when I couldn’t tell what was genuine attraction and what was wishful thinking – mentally pacing back and forth until the tracks became worn into my sub-conscience. Naturally I came to the correctly illogical solution. I would make the most absorbed melodramatic gesture possible.
“Do you think you would like to go out with me sometime?” I thrust the question out eager to rid myself of the words. Words that had been clawing that the back of my teeth for three months. The sharp chill of early winter bit down on my fingers I had shoved in my pockets. Expectantly, patiently, eagerly I waited for a response as she looked down at her feet – drawing clockwise circles with her left foot on the sidewalk.
Needless to say she said no, and life returned to normalcy as I systematically removed my affections for her. It’s funny, but sometimes I wish that story was true as well.
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