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I’ve been rooted here for as long as I can recall. Outlasting the erosion of the forest and observing the majesty of its creatures. Rarely do I wish to impose my knowledge on the passersby, though I possess an ocean's worth. I prefer to let the sands of time wash away the triumphs and mistakes of mankind. Besides, it's not like I could interject if I wanted to. But there's this man. He enters my forest and sits at my roots and lights kindling for warmth. His worn face illuminated by the burning bush, his bones and the fire crackling alike. We sit like this for a while until he begins to speak, his voice sick with southern drawl.
“I wish I knew how to quit you, Jack,” he whispers into the fire.
Jack. The name caught on his tongue like he didn’t want it to escape.
“You were right, we coulda had a good life together. If I wasn’t so…”
The man is drowning in the weight of unspoken words and undone deeds. I want to help him, but alas, I am but an impartial observer. He holds a solemn expression while he stokes the fire. He holds a bloodstained jacket close to his heart. With a turn towards the sky he utters a final sentence.
“More can happen than will happen, right man? But hell, nothins’ happenin’ now.”
I ponder the phrase. I consider what I’d say if I could say anything at all.