Two-thousand years I have lived. And, within the boundaries of my existence I have had more experiences than I could ever have the patience to share. Through war and tragedy I have stood here; beneath my branches I have seen the beauty of young lovers entangled in summer romance. Young children have swung from my branches; poets and artists have found much inspiration from my springtime blossoms. Oh!-the things that have been revealed to me. But, of all my experiences, there has been one in particular that constantly lingers in the forefront of my mind. It is the story of a young girl, a quite quirky young sprite, who found her one relief in the obscurity of my branches. She was no older than five when she first came to me. Her being was full of light, vitality, and beauty, which practically spilled from her every pore. The name of this blossoming beauty was Lily. Every afternoon she would come and hide in my branches, smiling as she watched the sunset.

But, one day, after she had entered young-adulthood, one particularly gloomy dismal day, she did not bless me with her presence. Instead, it seemed that she had gone to a party, a party which she had no business attending. It was one of those college type deals, wild and without supervision of any kind. An older boy, of the age of 20, a football player, had invited her. My naïve little Lily, she wasted no time in snatching up the opportunity. She slipped on her mother’s heels and a too-tight dress, showing off what little curves she did have, and left. After all, the jaw-dropping older boy is nearly always the teenage girl’s dream.

I never did piece together the puzzle of what occurred at the party; but when she returned, it appeared to me that whatever had happened was of no positive outcome. Whatever had affected my Lily as such, I do not know, but upon her arrival home her dress was dirty, her hair disheveled, her mascara smudged all about her cheeks. Immediately, as if by instinct, she ran to my familiar and much beloved branches. There she wept. And, for hours she did weep. She wept, tugging at her long scarlet locks of hair and howling out her sorrows. Until, finally, she ceased, stripping a thick vine from my trunk. Without a word, she kissed my one of my branches, smiling in a forced fashion. My curiosity peaked, I observed as she wrapped the vine about her neck as if it were a noose. Then, I watched my sweet Lily fling herself from my branches, as tranquil and easy as water. Her legs flared and kicked wildly as she struggled for air.

As much as I wished for her relief from the horrid state with which she had been inflicted, by whatever events had occurred, I could not stand by passively and watch such tragedy unfold. After a moment or two of debate, I allowed my branch, on which she hung, to snap, and permitted her to fall to the ground. To this, she did not respond as gratefully as I had expected, and instead ripped a twig from my mighty branch, launching it angrily across the yard. It hurt me so to watch such an act, but the life of my sweet Lily was more precious to me than any foolish pride. So, instead of holding hostility towards her, I simply stood in silence, watching her storm off into her house.

Never again did my sweet Lily return to sit in my branches. But, to this day I love her all the same.