Monday. Let’s do this. I’m on time as always. Hi, Jay. I heard you sing last weekend. Yeah, you can perch there. Nobody’s going to stop you, least of all me. We do what we’re meant to, right?
I know you tend to freak out when the newspaper girl goes by. I used to be terrified of bicycles when I was little. Two boys on their three wheels decided to get off the road, and one of them, the one with a greener cap, almost ran into me. Could have been bad, but I kept standing. He got up from the mud, eyes wet, knees bloody, and carried the tiny bike back on the road while his buddy waited. Had somewhere to be, I imagine.
Wait, it’s already Tuesday? There her bicycle goes again, and Harold and Wendy are back from their holidays. You have to listen closely, because otherwise you get left out. Harold always shouts whenever he or his wife are leaving, that’s how I know. He slams the door shut after grabbing the newspaper.
I don’t shout, do I? What kind of a mess can I vocalise, then? I occasionally hum, but I can’t grab everyone’s attention the same way Harold does with his demanding voice, and neither can I look at life like how Wendy’s longing gaze pierces the sunrise. Those things aren’t for me, I suppose.
Wednesday. My eyes were opened to the world right here. I see every sunrise and -set, while others pay attention to more trivial activities, such as… Well, I can’t think of any examples right now. The point is: today is Wednesday. Now… what else is going on?
Wendy’s dog barks after the bicycle before newspaper girl turns around the corner of the fence. Dog wags its tail. Please don’t pee on me.
Thursday... Harold goes to work early, newspaper girl waves at him. A squirrel sprints past me, fleeing the dog on the other side of the road. Wendy is rummaging through her bag for something… is that a camera? Why is she pointing it towards me?
Oh. The squirrel paused to pose for her.
What a show-off.
I could do that if they gave me a chance. Do I need a bushy tail or something?
It’s seldom I catch people looking right at me. Mostly autumn, they love me at autumn... Anyway, those people, sometimes... Sometimes, they aren’t thinking about me, even when they do look. Not really. I’m there, but they wouldn’t notice if I was gone.
Friday, Wendy shrieks that the sudoku is covered in mud... Yes, I can hear you sing. What do you mean, they would notice? Yeah, yeah, I know I don’t move a whole bunch, compared to you flying around.
But so what if I’m always here? That doesn’t give them the right to assume I’ll stay. What if I had plans, is that too incomprehensible?
Maybe I’ll want a tattoo one day. Maybe I’ll tear my roots off the ground and stop standing around. Be somewhere else. One day.
Saturday. Harold, mouth foaming, screams at newspaper girl, I can’t understand why. Some stranger leaned on me. Luckily didn’t step on the roots.
I’m not tearing them apart. Stop asking. It’s just… Is this all I’m meant to be?
The bicycle clatters against the fence, newspaper girl squeezes a paper from yesterday in her grip.
So, it’s Sunday again. No bicycle. Newspaper girl must have a cold. Sometimes I feel they will only truly see me if they are about to run into me. When I’m a problem. Or when they want something, a piece of me...
I don’t care what day it is.
Hey, look... Who’s that with the newspapers? It’s not the newspaper girl. Why is this newspaper boy getting off the road? And... Why is his cap no longer green? He hits the brake by the fence. Walks towards me. I think he’s grown a lot, or maybe I haven’t.
Harold shouts at us from his doorstep. The boy glances over his shoulder but turns back to me. He smiles while craning his neck up. The squirrel runs up me in spirals while he’s looking, and he laughs. The squirrel, fidgeting, tries to assess if the boy is in league with the dog. The ground is muddy under his shoes, I think it rained yesterday.
When was the last time the world was this silent? I hum just to fill it, make things back the way they were. The boy doesn’t flinch, just stands there, holding a wrapped-up newspaper. The top of the front page is barely visible. I’m not looking at its date. Do I care what day it is?
Finally, the boy takes a step backwards, gently spins around and leaves. He doesn’t look back as he mounts the bicycle.
I wish I knew how to drive one.
A cloudy day. Two discarded plastic bags struggle against the wind, dancing past each other as they journey along the fence. The squirrel never pays attention to you. Does that bother you? I guess not.
My roots will always be here. I live on even if they never stop and say hello…
...Just wait till I figure out a way to get out of this stupid, fucking tree.