Sai Whira Linn Khant

    In the heart of Catton Park in Norwich, where people came and went without a second glance, stood an old oak tree. It was me. I had been there for centuries, my roots entwined deep in the earth, my branches reaching skyward in silent grace.
    “Race you to the top!” a boy shouted, climbing my sturdy limbs. Nestled in the crook of one of my arms, a tiny bird’s nest trembled as he reached for the delicate eggs within. A good tree can lodge ten thousand birds, as a Chinese proverb goes.
    “This tree will always be our spot,” a young couple whispered, carving their initials into my bark.
    “Ah, this shade is a solace on a summer day,” the elderly, weary from their long journey, sighed, leaning against my strong trunk.
    For years, I had been cherished. Each touch, each word, each moment—I cherished them all in turn.
    But time flies. The children stopped climbing, the lovers no longer whispered, and the elders found new places to rest. Fewer and fewer hands brushed against my bark, and a babble of voices grew distant. I stood as I always had, waiting, hoping, but I was forgotten.
    Seasons changed, and so did the world around me. Buildings rose, streets expanded, and the park became smaller. The once-vibrant sanctuary of greenery was reduced to a mere remnant of its former self. My fellow companions—other trees who had stood beside me for ages—were felled, one by one, making way for concrete and steel. I felt their loss as though a part of me had been torn away. 
    Still, I gritted my teeth. My golden autumn leaves left unnoticed. Winter followed, and my bare branches sagged under the weight of snow. Spring came, and no one danced in my shade. Summer burned, and I thirsted for rain that never came.
    Then, one fateful day, a group of workers arrived. Their voices were cold, their hands unfeeling. I sensed the sharpness of their tools before the first cut was made. 
    “Just another old tree in the way,” one of them grumbled.
    They did not see me as I was, but only as an obstacle. Pain seared through me as the saw bit into my ancient flesh. I wanted to cry out, to plead for mercy—but I had no voice. I could only feel.
    With each strike, memories flooded my being. Laughter, whispers, songs—all of it came rushing back, only to be drowned out by the roar of their machines. In a final act of defiance, my roots clung to the earth, refusing to let go, but in vain. The world no longer needed me.
    When I fell, the impact echoed through the park, but no one listened. My body lay broken, my rings—a record of centuries—exposed and meaningless. Time moved on without my life.
    But then, I was changed into a stump. People began to notice the emptiness where I once stood. The park felt different—less welcoming, less alive. The summer sun beat down mercilessly without my shade. The wind howled through the barren space, carrying with it an eerie stillness.
    “It feels so empty here now,” a woman sighed.
    “Something’s missing… but what?” a girl asked, searching for an answer.
    Regret settled over them like an unshakable shadow. Picnickers had no choice but to seek refuge elsewhere.
    “Remember that old oak? The one we used to sit under?” an old man asked his friend.
    “Yes… I wish we had paid more attention before it was gone,” came the reply, heavy with sorrow.
    Without my roots to stabilize the soil, the earth weakened. The rains came, heavy and incessant, and the ground crumbled, turning the park into a flooded wasteland. Now, there was nothing to stop its erosion.
    “This never used to happen,” a shopkeeper cried as water seeped into his store.
    The people gathered, mourning not just my loss, but what my absence had done to their world. I had been silent, but I had spoken in other ways. Through shade, through shelter, through strength. They witnessed what they had taken for granted.
    Moved by guilt and nostalgia, the city planted new saplings in my place, hoping to restore what was lost. 
    “Maybe in time, these will grow as strong as the old oak,” a gardener murmured as he watered the new trees. 
    However, some losses cannot be undone. It would take generations for the land to heal, for the roots to deepen, for a new guardian to rise. And perhaps, by the time that day came, they would have forgotten the lesson soon.

I stood through time, so strong, so tall,
And watched the seasons rise and fall.
Yet when I fall, who will recall
The tree that spread love to all?

(799 words)