The Old Man in the Tree

I was kissed by a tree. I didn’t even notice until I put my hand in my hair later that afternoon. I guess he had liked what I did for him!

You see, there’s this big pine tree by my house. I call him Old Man because he’s always been there. He shades me from harsh sun, shields me from stinging rain. I return the favor by making sure that, unlike the other trees nearby, he does not become overrun by English ivy vines.

Have you ever seen what they do to a tree? They grow little anchors that burrow into bark! I can’t bear to think of my friend being dug into like that. So after a month of should-talk, I took a few minutes and de-vined him. 

The vine juice was like blood on my fingers. Sheets of outer bark were pulled away. I viciously pulled the offending vines right out of the ground, if I could manage it. “Get off my treefriend,” I thought.
I don’t know at what point the pine sap dropped twenty feet from the branches above onto the hairs at the nape of my neck, but when I scratched the area afterward and found the fragrant resin, my husband called it a kiss.

A kiss from the Old Man in the tree.


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