All the other trees along the street had large, broad green leaves that turned golden yellow every fall and fell in a beautiful carpet to the sidewalk. They were all lightly chestnut colored trunks, with swirlings of darker browns up and down the branches and bark. They grew tall, but narrow, and shaded the passersbys with gently wafting shadows.
All the other trees…
That one tree on the corner was never green. Instead, it was always an ominous shade of dark red – spring, summer, and fall. In the winter, its bare branches were a deep, deep mahogany color that stood out from the cool greys of the surrounding buildings and concrete. It grew short and wide, and covered the entire corner in a dark, impenetrable shadow. It was planted at the same time as the other trees, so no one knew why it was the way it was. It had just always been like that.
There were constantly wreaths of flowers and small white crosses on that corner. It always seemed to be decorated in memorial to someone, though any flowers placed at the trunk seemed to wither and die within hours. It was just so dark, and there were so many accidents…
As long as I’ve lived in this apartment, overlooking this intersection, that tree has been there. It was actually part of why I chose this place, I loved the reds of the tree. I didn’t realize at the time how different it was.
I’ve watched three accidents happen from my balcony. Each time, there was nothing I could do. I tried shouting. And waving my hands like a maniac. But every time, they seemed not to hear me. They just sprinted into the street, diving for something that I couldn’t see. The cars that they also didn’t hear could’t stop, and that was that. All three times it was exactly the same.
I tried to figure out what tree it was. I shared it on botanist pages in social media. I emailed universities and wildlife resources. No one had ever seen a tree quite like this eternal red tree. There were best guesses, and there were trees that were “similar”, but nothing matched exactly. It was one of a kind, and it drew a lot of attention.
I think some of those people became flowers and crosses.
I even inquired to the city as to why it was never taken down. “It was planted in memorandum.” That’s all they would say, and all they would do. The tree would remain where it was.
I did my own research. It was planted for the mayor’s son who was killed when run over by a car. It was horrible, yeah, but if you look just a little bit more into this kid, he was a terror. That doesn’t mean that he deserved to go the way that he did, but he was well on his way to becoming a serial killer.
Moms and Dads should always love their kids. That’s to be expected.
But what the hell was that tree?!
I finally decided to investigate myself. One of the botanists said if I could get a root sample and some bark, he might have a better time identifying the tree. It was a nice night, warm with a soft breeze. I just had to run down and collect some samples, no big deal. I had a small spade on my patio for the herb garden, and I didn’t have to dig very deep.
At least I hadn’t thought I’d have to go very deep. But damn, the roots were buried. I was already about eight inches into the soft, cold dirt and I had barely scraped the top of a small piece of the root. Wait a minute, it wasn’t a root. It was… a small, gray piece of pottery? They planted the tree in its pot? That was so bizarre.
I dug deeper, chipping away the pieces of clay pot in my attempt to get to the roots. It was almost like a protective armor, keeping the naked roots from the stab of my shovel. Seriously, this tree should be cut down.
As I pulled some of the larger pieces of pot from the hole, some lettering caught my eye. This wasn’t a simple, store-bought clay pot. It was… I brushed some dirt from the pot, squinting in the strange darkness under the tree.
IO URN
IO URN?
What the hell was that…?
Airy, peculiar laughter pulled my attention from the strange discovery in my hands. There was a little boy in the street, playing with a ball. It was ten-o-clock at night, what was this kid doing here? Where were his parents?
“Hey, kid, get out of the street,” I yelled at him, watching the stoplight above his head turn green.
He didn’t move. Just kept throwing the ball straight up, and catching it. And then again. And again.
“Kid, hey. Hey!” I dropped the piece of pot as I heard the unmistakable roar of a diesel engine speeding down the road. “Move it! Get the hell out of there!”
He didn’t hear me.
I didn’t even think about it. I bolted into the street, running as hard as I could for the kid. In the periphery, I heard the tires and the engine of the truck, but it seemed almost as if it were in another dimension. I dove at the kid, my arms outstretched to tuck and roll, but he disappeared. All that was left was that same, unearthly laugh and the screech of overworked brakes that would never stop in time.
