Grief can truly seem never-ending, like the infinite loop of the number 8, and everyone deals with it in their own way.
Ever since the bird left my forest, I genuinely carry its weight—sobbing still. Yet I struggle to shed a single tear for the tree, the very heart of the forest.
This tree had been fading for decades but stood tall until year's end. Its leaves dropped silently, one after another. Unaware that its leaves had all gone, it left behind a dry husk that eventually succumbed.
Why did its end coincide precisely with the time when the world celebrates, filled with joy? Perhaps the tree wanted no sorrow, letting its cries blend with the fireworks.
On the tree's final day, the earth wept as the sky poured rain. I mourned the thought of my tree returning to the soil, cold and alone. I felt a flicker of tears in the corner of my eyes but quickly dried them up.
I could see the tree in the eyes of the neighborhood kid. I could sense the tree visit the sun; embracing it as I heard its sorrowful sobs. Somehow, I felt intertwined with it, mourning for the bird that flew away.
Now I wonder, who's next in line—me or the sun?
