A/N: I know this is short, I was in a fiction lecture and was spacing out so I drew a tree. Then the speaker started talking about a tree that was outside her house as a little girl. She talked about how she would play with her marbles under it and how even though it was gone from the actual yard, she still pictures it there. I just found this to be very... Intriguing. So humor me; read and review!
The tree had always been there. It was the one my sister and I had played under as children during summer holidays. She would bring her marbles outside and sit on the roots, pretending that they were people in a town. When she was thirteen, she had her first kiss under the branches, barren in the middle of winter. She never knew, but I watched from the back bedroom window. She came home from college one spring break and we sat, leaning up against the back of the house, and watched a bird build her nest. Her mate would bring her twigs, the female spinning to hollow out the nest. She finally settled in and allowed her heartbeat to finish it. My sister said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. And when, years later the tree had died, she sat in the back bedroom, cold metal barrel of our father's pistol to her chest, and watched as the city workers slowly sawed down the tree. Her depression finally took control of her mind, and the tree fell with a resounding crack.