I’m THAT tree.
By: Ayca Aramaz
I always thought of myself as a tree.
Sturdy and tall with its roots clenched deep within the earth.
Branches thick and long that scatter in every direction.
That one tree that’s always been there when you turn the corner.
The one that turns the best shades of reds, yellows and oranges in the Fall.
Looks enchanted with frozen branches in the winter.
Or blooms the biggest pink flowers in the spring.
That one tree with the greenest leaves in the summer.
I always thought of myself as that tree.
Or at least wanted to be.
I wanted to be the tree that kids would use as their base when playing tag.
A tree worth fighting for not to cut down.
A tree that with a just single glance you knew its roots covered the ground beneath you.
A tree that didn’t get knocked down by the wind or the storm.
But one built strong by nature.
I wanted to be that tree.
That even if you cut me down, you could see my rings that circle on for what seems like forever.
The rings that prove I was here.
Present and noticed.
But I’m not that tree.
I am the piece of paper you’re holding.
The one with my name and words on it.
The one so thin that if you hold it on its side you can’t see it anymore.
The piece of paper so unvalued by many, the one taken for granted.
I’m the piece of paper with address direction or the grocery list on it.
The one that comes and goes, a typical every day object.
I get crimpled and soaked, and tossed, and trashed.
I end up used and forgotten, lost, misplaced.
When people see paper, they see ordinary, simple.
When I see paper, I see THAT tree.
I may not be that tree, I may be that piece paper in your hand.
But I’ve come from THAT tree.
And that’s good enough for me.
To you it’s a piece of paper.
To me it’s that one tree.