The wound still feels quite fresh, though I can’t find in my memory the moment I got it. Before me stands a man I’ve seen thousands of times before, and he is wielding an axe. Behind him is a trail of footsteps in fresh snow trailing back towards the house I watched him build. 

I see now, my own bark chipped and scattered at his feet, my sapwood exposed to the harsh, dry air.

…

In the Spring, the humans who call this land home spend more time outside, but this time there are three of them. Two fully grown and one much smaller, it must be their child though I could have sworn he was grown by now. They all three wear smiles from ear to ear and fill the air with their songs of laughter. Across the meadow is a backdrop of Redbud trees showing vibrant pink flowers all along every branch. My own branches, still rigid from the recently departed cold, are beginning to put out buds, soon I will get a closer look at the child when the Summer allows them to use my canopy for shade.

Before the humans return into their house as they do every night, the memory ends. Another blow lands, and I see the man before me again, alone. One after the other, alternating the angle at which he strikes, not evening allowing time for the sap to flow. I’m more shocked than anything, but before the scene fully comes into focus I am teleported away again.

…

I see the meadow again, though this time it must be Summer. The redbuds have shed their blooms for light green, heart shaped leaves. My own canopy has fully set. The goldenrod at the forest edge is in full bloom. 

The house is still just a half finished cabin, with a few partially sawn logs sitting idle around the construction site. Unlike most days from around that time, there are no humans pacing around the cabin. Instead, there are many, many people lined up in rows throughout the meadow. The men are in black, and the women come in every color. The people that call this forest home, stand together, one in black the other in white, in front of the rest. From my seat I can hear murmurs, but they are too distant to make out.

“Through good times and bad,” I hear suddenly, much closer and with heavier breathe than the whispers that I heard just a moment ago. The man is speaking to himself as he swings his weapon now. Through grunts and a clenched jaw, “For better or worse!” 

As he finishes his sentence he unleashes an especially vicious swing, and my senses are flooded with red as shrapnel flies back towards him.

…

The meadow is gone. The cabin and the trucks that came before it have clearly not yet arrived. My perspective is different, I find myself in the shade of those I have not seen in decades. It’s Fall. From the shade I can see the orange sunset, and the sickly yellow of the sycamores just before they drop their leaves. On my own branches there are not yet seed pods.

A small fox catches my attention as it brushes my thin trunk with enough force to jostle my highest branches, just a few feet above his own head. He is chasing his mother, still full of energy having just woken for a night of hunting. I remember this feeling, it is different than anything I have felt in recent seasons. But something is wrong.

As the fox continues to scamper through rotting leaves on the forest floor, I can see him getting closer again, even as his tail points toward me.

No. It isn’t fall, it’s Summer. And the crowd of people stood in the meadow are below me, with fear in their eyes. They are getting closer.

They get out of the way, and I can see fresh daffodils and dandelions growing wild in the grass where they stood. I can see each seed on the pollinated dandelion’s fluffy head. I blow a wish as I hit the ground. For just a moment again, I see the man, wiping sweat from his brow, letting his eyes stay wide, and letting his axe fall to the soil. He takes a ring off his finger and lays it on the stump where I stood before.