Words Misinterpreted

The old tree sits in the center if the block, only feet away from the school's entrance. He likes to see the children as they pass by. Some days he counts them, one by one, as they come. Other days he whispers goodbye, but the students can't hear. Occasionally he'll look up and wonder how it feels to be a cloud, just rolling with the breeze. He likes being tree; it makes him feel secure, solid. He will be here for a very long time. He shivers as the cold winter winds blow and holds on tight when a gale tries to break his branches. It makes him sad to see the broken twigs scattered on the ground. But he stills never forgets spring, his renewal. When all the wounds from the angry season decreed upon him heal and he is adorned with buds. Soon they turn into flowers, which lead into his favorite season, autumn. He loves it when his leaves turn red and orange, giving the illusion of fire. Once the leaves change, however, they threaten to decay early. The old tree heaves a sigh and lets the flutter gracefully to the ground, with all the children looking at the pavement, maybe at least now they'll appreciate nature's beauty. He is sad to see them leaves fall, but wishes to place his happiness on someone else. Perhaps the leaves will bring joy to a lonely soul.

A little girl and her mother leave the school.

"Look," the little girl points. "The leaves are falling. The tree must be crying," her mother nods distractedly, opening the car door.

"Yes," she murmurs, buckling her child. "Yes, that must be it."