They say trees can communicate with each other. Something about micro chemical reactions or some shit. I read it once in a book somewhere, and I intended to learn more about it. But life is short. Who knew? I sure didn't.
And now look at me. 6 feet under, an outdated pile of bones. I’m so outdated, I wasn’t given a place in a graveyard. A tree’s roots embellish my wooden box, winding in and out of the grain, puncturing the hull and clawing its way through. I don’t mind. I am all but soil myself. If I turned into dust tomorrow, I wouldn’t be surprised. Ashes to ashes, after all. Maybe when tomorrow comes it’ll finally bring some warmth with it.
“Tomorrow.” What an odd word. It is merely conceptual: by the time tomorrow arrives, it is already gone. I neglected to learn that for the majority of my life, though. I used to live like tomorrow was all I had, all that mattered, all that was. I used to think tomorrow was all that made me relevant. Now I realize that tomorrow is what made me irrelevant, along with a million other things. If I could roll over in my grave, I would.
I think the soil trickling into my broken ribs is frozen. That’s my best guess, anyways. I probably felt a million leaves fall on the ground above me, I think the footsteps have ceased, and I am alone. It’s baffling to consider how close I am to the earth, but I still can’t feel her breathe. Live chasing everything, die with nothing. Dust to dust. Maybe if I think about it hard enough, I could still feel my heartbeat. Maybe if I try hard enough, I could reach another one just like me. Perhaps someone who got a graveyard, and their name engraved in stone. What would we have to say? If micro chemical reactions work, how would they feel? Would I feel accompanied? Would they be warm or cold like me? Would there just be a vague presence, or would I feel a story? Could I feel the warmth of the sun on my fingertips, the blisters on my face, the last moments in scalding heat, once more? Maybe if I think about it hard enough, I could feel someone else’s heartbeat. If I sit with nothing, will everything eventually arrive?
There are footsteps above me. I think. It’s hard to tell, but maybe there is a vibration in the pattern of skips and laughter. The roots snaking inside me became longer and stronger. The tree is awake. It feels amused, maybe even happy. Satisfied. Warm. At least that is the general sensation. I might not have been wrong about the footsteps. I wish I could remember the flowers. I wish I could remember the clouds. If I tried hard enough, could I send my thoughts into the world again? I spent my whole life speaking into walls, yelling for a way out, could I do it once more? Would I feel less void if someone held my well wishes in their palm?
The footsteps haven’t left. They come back every once in a while. I think this time, though, they’re here to stay. From what I can tell, there are more of them, including some things I don’t recognize. The earth spilling about me is trembling. It is afraid. The roots intertwined within me are weeping. They are afraid. I am shaking. I am not afraid.
The morning after I died, I tried to unkill myself. I tried to learn all the things I didn’t know, I tried to reach the sky. I tried to see my father’s eyes, I tried to see the river. All I did was try. The willpower of an idea isn’t very powerful, though, and the force of a memory is blunt. It turns out that you can’t go back, no matter how much you crave your heartbeat. Who knew? Death is short because you can’t move forward.
They say trees can communicate with each other. I wonder if that holds true after they’ve fallen.
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