The Watcher [Prose]

A new tiny little story of 313 words for From the Point of View of Trees (Telling Tales with Magaly Guerrero: a Pantry of Prose, #4, at Poets United).

The Watcher

We who stay where we grow are aware of more than you imagine, you who move around. Our roots and branches connect us far through earth and sky. We gather information. We receive messages. We bear witness. 

She in this house is responsible for me. She failed to pull out one tiny weed. When she realised I was becoming a tree, she turned a blind eye. I grew fast and tall. She loves me, and lets me stay. I watch the looks she gives me, of pleasure and pride. 

I watch her brother too, in a far city. He used to visit her here. Knowing his energy signature, I could track it back to his home. Now he is sick and doesn't go out. I observe him by joining the consciousness of the blue gum outside his window. I also observe her, here, and see that she grieves and fears. 

One day a small dog arrives – young and bouncy, and very pleased to be here. I recognise him; he's been here before. It's her brother's dog, Pepito, nicknamed Peppy. This dog regards the whole world as delightful, and everyone as a friend. But she cries as she cuddles him. Peppy is here because her brother can't look after him any more. 

We like being alive, we trees. We don't know what lies beyond, any more than you do. But we sense the in-between, where many kinds of spirits hover, including those who have recently died. So when her brother arrives to look at her and his dog, I perceive that he is no longer alive bodily. I can also tell that looking at them makes his spirit happy – even though she is crying. 

He squeezes her shoulder. She doesn't appear to see him, but she must feel something. She calms. The little dog wags his tail. 

The man vanishes.

I stand guard.