It was my tree, a pine or a type of a conifer perhaps. I didn’t care to ask the gardener its scientific name. I just knew it was mine. We met for the first time when I visited the coffee shop on the campus. It was a bright summer evening. The sun refused to set even at 6:30 and I could see the orange hues reflecting against the windows of the coffee shop. I chose a seat from where I could see the sun make its way to the other side of the planet. I didn’t realise then that I would notice a stranger left behind by someone who had not cared to remember.

It didn’t take long for us to build an acquaintance. We both were some sort of loners in the area; I couldn’t find my feet in the crowd and the tree was trapped in a garden full of flowers. That allowed us to break the ice. I would occupy the same seat at the coffee shop almost every day, take out my books and my laptop and read, sometimes pretend to read, and the tree would give me company. The association was strange to begin with. Though we had a common connect, we did not know how to communicate. It took some time for us to realise that feelings need no translation. They are there for you to read only if you care to understand.

It became easy with time. I spoke about my day and the tree had its own story to tell. I had my share of good and bad days and so did the tree. I spoke about times when sitting in class became excruciating with all the noises ringing in my head. The tree spoke about days when the wind broke its bones for daring to disobey direct orders. We were a match in some ways. We were both trying to fit in where we did not belong or maybe we were not trying at all. Nevertheless, that’s not the point. Between the hellos and goodbyes, the conversations began to matter. On a sunny evening or a blustery morning, we sat there exchanging our notes from that day, the previous day, that life and the previous life.

When the time came to part ways, we looked into each other’s eyes and made a promise to meet again, if we lived long enough. We were not sad, melancholic perhaps, at moving on. If only the tree could move, had feet, I thought. It would then have experiences and not have to wait. However, the metaphor was a bit contradictory. We, as human beings, move but sometimes we stand still; at the same place, locked in time, without evolving. We breathe oxygen but are not alive. See, that’s what was different with the tree. It was stationary but moved every bit of me that was stationary. I wished, in the heart of hearts that the tree finds a new companion. After all, there are several outcasts like me on this planet and I hoped there would be another one visiting the coffee shop who would look across the window and meet this beautiful stranger.

It has been three years since. The north-western winds are strong and I am beginning to set sail. I’m embarking on a journey that will take me places I have not seen, people I have not met, events I have not experienced and interpretations I have not built. I intend to meet the tree again. I am hoping that the tree would recognise me. Even if it doesn’t, I will be happy in the knowledge that the tree has had experiences enough to push me into the forgotten side of its memory. As far as I am concerned, I need to keep my side of the promise. That’s the least I can do.