I imagine, for a moment, that trees are lifelines. They seem to last forever, and stand tall as soldiers. On a million sheets of notepaper, I write my story. “My first word”, on one sheet, on the next, “my first bike”, to “my first sip of alcohol”, and “my last breath”. I tie them to the twisting branches with little ribbons, with no sense of order or direction.
Does my birth go at the top of the tree, or the bottom? And what about my death? Perhaps it would be sensible for birth to be at the bottom, to celebrate, quite literally, my roots. Then, one may suggest, death should be at the bottom, committing that act, like the body, to the earth. But then, what would go at the top?
What act is so important that it deserves to be at the highest point of a tree? A marriage? The birth of a child? Winning a great sum of money, or maybe something as simple as my name? Or, possibly, one of the bad things I’ve done could be at the top, on show for all to see my humility, and pushed high into the face of God? Should I confess my sins by shouting them on high, or put them lower down? After all, at the top of a tree, nobody could possibly read my words. However, at the bottom, if I were to put them there, people may suspect I feel they are the lesser points to know about myself – that they are to be ignored and only the messages left at eye-level about favourite colours and sweets should be recognised.
And what of those likes and dislikes? Are they really so vital that they should be written down and displayed? Are they really that relevant to my being at all, or are they just ideas that help shape the sort of person I am?
I think to myself, can I really explain who I am through little messages left, hidden in the middle of a forest somewhere, or is that a silly venture? If I completed my story, then where would I go? Surely I would not return again to that tree. And who would want to read it all anyway? I suspect that people would come by and take what they liked from my tree – my favourite food, my least favourite band, or a memory jointly shared, and then work it into their own memories, their own lifelines, and allow a story to continue.
I stop what I am doing, and pull my words down from the tree.

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...