The zelkova tree in front of the yard is sick.Its leaves burn yellow,and one branch has brokenand caught on the power line.Every morning Father stroked the tree,saying, This one is growing old too.
When I was a child, I hung from that tree.I rode the swing Father pushed.Once I went too highand hit my head on a branch.Father caught meand kissed my forehead.
After Father died,the tree suddenly began to wither.As if it remembered his touch.I tried giving it fertilizer and water,but the tree bowed its headand said nothing.
This morning I write a letter to the tree.I stop after one line and tie it to a branch.When the wind blows, the paper comes looseand falls face down on the soil by the roots.I strike a matchand burn one corner of the letter.