A Man, His Trees, and the Maybe That Got Away
Description: Gritty conversation from tale of Mack’s unusual encounter with trees at his grandparents backyard that force him to confront his past mistakes, current choices, and uncertain future with women.
The August heat pressed down on the city like a heavy hand, even at 3:30 in the afternoon. Mack pushed through the screen door into his grandmother’s backyard, seeking refuge under the twin pecan trees that had stood in the backyard longer than he had been breathing. The humidity was off the charts, but there was something about the spot between trees—maybe it was the way the branches blocked the sun light, or how the leaves grew in there that whispered secrets to anyone willing to listen.
He sat down in his old lawn chair, the aluminum frame creaking from over the years wear and tear. A and warm breeze stirred around him and above him, clouds slowly moving in front the sun partially blocking its shine, painting shadows on the ground like that danced across his skin.
An ant was crawled way up to his calf. He plucked it off without really thinking, his mind elsewhere. A fly buzzed around his head—persistent little thing. He waved it away, then noticed how quiet everything had gotten except for the breeze blowing through the trees.
Thunk.
A pecan dropped right next to his foot. Mack stared at it, then up at the trees. The leaves moved without any wind.
“Damn squirrels probably gonna eat all the pecans this year,” he mumbled, watching a light brown and white tail disappear into the higher branches. “Y’all better leave some for—”
“Aight,” he said to no one in particular.
Tree 1: You see how she look at you whenever you come around.
The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere—maybe from the slightly older tree, the one with bark scarred from decades of storms.
Mack sat up straighter.
Mack: “What the—”
Tree 2: Yep, and she be looking good as well.
This time he was sure it came from the younger tree, the one his grandfather had planted when he was coming up.
Mack: “Man, I must be losing it.”
But even as he said it, Mack found himself responding:
Mack: “Yeah, she do look good. Always did.”
Tree 1: But you fucked that up.
Mack: “Look, I came out here to connect with nature, not get lectured.”
Tree 2: Hey, got an idea—you should ask her to get back together.
Tree 1: Yeah, you a changed person now. So are you?
The questions hung in the air like humidity. Mack closed his eyes, feeling the weight of everything he’d been carrying since Keisha walked out six months ago. The job he’d lost because he couldn’t stay sober. The nights he’d spent on his cousin’s couch because he had too proud to come back here to his grandmother’s house. The way Keisha had looked at him that last morning—not angry anymore, just tired. Disappointed.
But he had changed. Three months clean. Working again. Sleeping in a bed instead of his cousin couch and helping his grandmother with groceries on Saturdays. But in the back of his mind he wonder if she would ever change?
A mosquito buzz near his ear, then another one. He slapped his neck.
Mack: “There go them damn mosquitoes, (standing up). “I’m out of here.”
But as he reached for the screen door, he turned back to look at the trees. The late afternoon sun caught the leaves, looking like they were trying to tell him something important.
Maybe tomorrow he would go back and sit in the backyard under the trees again.
Maybe tomorrow he would listen.
Maybe tomorrow he might call Keisha.
The pecan by his foot caught his eye again. He picked it up, feeling its weight in his palm—small but solid, full of potential. He looked up and seen the possible squirrels and threw the pecan up in their direction and headed inside, where the his grandmother was watching her evening stories in the coldest room in the house was a different kind of conversation.
Behind him, the trees rustled in a breeze that felt like approval.
To be continued…