the tree

written April 2012

“Come down, come down,” were the only words one could hear as they neared the tree, his tree. It was called his tree simply because he refused to come down from it. The crazy old man in the tree. We were unsure of how he got up there in the first place. He’s been there for weeks now.

At first, the firemen and police circled the tree, with people crowded around, onlookers searching for a show. The world and time had stopped those first few hours they tried to get him out of the tree. We waited, breathless with anticipation. The uniforms would have succeeded if it had not been for the fact that he simply refused to leave the tree.

The crazy old man in the tree became somewhat of a novice. The story of the crazy old man in the tree who refused to come down spread throughout surrounding towns. Visitors would come just to try and succeed in doing what no one else had. 

“Come down, come down,” they would all chant as he shook his head, declining the taunts as if they were a kind offer. After weeks of trying, the young, the old, even the wisest people in the town believed he was a fool, that crazy old man in the tree.

 At night, every night, they all gather as a final exasperated effort, and watch as the crazy old man sits in the tree and ignores calls to, “Come down, come down.”

After tireless begging, the parents and their children, the lovers, and the friends walk hand in hand, making their way through the darkened streets to their comfortable homes. None of them go to bed lonely. The children are tucked in perfectly made beds, and read perfect little fairy tales before drifting off to perfect little dreams.

The town was asleep, and I decided tonight was the night I would finally talk to the crazy old man in the tree who refused to come down. I walked the empty streets I had memorized as a young child, following the worn path that led to his illuminated tree.

As I approached the tree, the crazy old man started talking. His voice sounded like the dust of a thousand years. I felt like I was going back in time as he started answering the question I hadn't even asked him yet.

“My friends, my friends,” he said gruffly.

“What?” I whispered.

“My friends, my family, everyone I loved is gone,” he stated.

He could see the confusion on my face, why was he telling me this? But the crazy old man was wise and waited for me to figure the answer out myself.

“No one. No one is left,” he went on, seeing that I was having difficulty connecting the broken pieces of what he was saying.

More moments of deafening silence passed until I felt I finally knew what he was saying, I looked up into the endless and deep ocean of his lonely eyes and voiced my question to confirm my beliefs. With a trembling voice I asked, “Why don’t you come down from the tree?”

The crazy old man who refused to come down looked back into equally lonely eyes as if he was telling me the secret to the universe and said,

 “Because people will stop asking for me to come down.”