I Still Stand

People seem to enjoy guessing my age. Fifty years. Two hundred. Five hundred. The truth is, I have lost count. People count years. I count what endured. The knots along my trunk are evidence of seasons that asked more of me than others. Long before these grasses were trimmed into beauty, I learned to hold through rain, flood, drought, and wind. Somewhere along the way I was passed over on an architect's drawing of what needed to be altered. So here I remain. I still stand. Time has changed many things. Not my location. My understanding. I no longer concern myself with being noticed. People walk beneath my branches and occasionally gesture toward my trunk. "Look at those branches." "That must be an old tree." Then they continue on. I am not part of their conversation. The deer, however, know me differently. They come when the Texas sun asks too much of them. My canopy is enough. That is sufficient. I have been fortunate. I do not count days. Or people. No two mornings arrive quite the same. Some days the wind leans hard against me. Other days it barely stirs my leaves. Occasionally, a child's feet scramble across my roots. Hands rest quietly against my trunk, as though testing whether I still stand. Birds and squirrels borrow my branches. I never know what each day will bring. I do not depend upon the weather, or the footsteps, or the eyes that notice me to become who I already am. Here, I was given room. Room to widen. Room to stretch. Room to become entirely myself. Not every tree receives that kindness. (A quiet smile.) I hear the whispers about my size, my twists, my age. Most do not know what shaped them. They do not need to. Even if I could tell them, they would understand the events, not their weight. The seasons that threatened me are the same seasons that became my knots. My strength. My twists. More...me. I was anxious once. Most living things are. Trees simply have longer to discover that anxiety alters very little. The wind arrives whether I welcome it or not. Floods do not ask permission. A chainsaw has no interest in my opinion. Waiting has become my oldest companion. Not because waiting changes what comes. Because it changes how I meet it. The younger trees still chatter through their roots. They warn each other of insects. Disease. Disturbance. Sometimes the disturbance is people. That is useful. Panic is not. These have been gentle seasons. I am grateful. I have also lived long enough to know that gentle seasons eventually end. I do not cling to them. Trees learn early that nothing remains because it is wished to remain. I simply remain. The day arrives. If a day brings you to Landa Park, I will be standing here. From the Witness When I first walked toward this tree, I placed my hand against its trunk and said, "I see you."