Under the beech tree

“Maybe this one’s a dead tree. You can paint that too. Because that’s what nature’s about—life and death is just the way nature works…”

He was lying on his stomach, his nose inches from the television. I sat by his side, watching the light of it reflect on his little face.
It used to be our routine—watching Bob Ross after lunch and falling asleep on such musty afternoons as these. Somehow, when it comes to nostalgia, and when it’s time to say goodbye, memories are always bathed in golden sunlight.

Many, many summers ago, I first met Chester as he lay under the old beech tree. I forget how exactly we came to be at the same place, but I remember those little pockets of sunlight glimmering and swaying, the rustle of those dead branches, and the smell of hay.
His shirt was frayed and torn in several places, and he was struggling to hold back his tears.
It was as though I had known him for a long time. This scrawny little boy with a fuzzy brown head. I was just as tattered as him. Beaten. Lonely. And, oh boy, bored out of my mind. So I sat next to him and looked at him.
‘Those guys suck,’ he croaked.
I nodded and pointed to my muddy t-shirt.
His face broke into a grin, revealing his missing front tooth. And slowly, god knows why, we laughed. Laughed until our sides were aching, bladders threatening to burst.

So began our friendship. We were constantly together, and we were our only friends. So what? It didn’t matter to me. I finally found a friend. All these years later, I still find that the sweetness of it all comes through just the same.

But, the thing about time is that, in all its rush, the sweetness mixes with other things.

Bitterness, for example. Not the sort that makes Chester scrunch up his face and spit out his breakfast, no. This is deeper. The sort that makes your stomach feel like it’s shrinking.

A feeling of dread. Like the way lemonade seeps into your throat and you feel it all the way to your tummy on a hot day, but this leaves you feeling drained.

Chester and I used to sit on those rusty swing sets beside the lake, going so high up, we used to feel like we were flying. My stomach used to plummet on the way down, and the feeling still lingers today. Every time I see him leave, every time we skip our daily routine, my stomach plummets.

So many last times. The thing about them is that they fade away, without goodbyes. No ceremony. One day you build a fort out of mouldy bedsheets like every other Friday night. And then never again.

Fading. Not like the time Chester and I sat on the roof and watched the stars fade into daylight. There wasn’t a next time for our memories.

I sometimes walked with him to school. Particularly when he was nervous. I was there for all his first moments. First day at school. First time on stage. First birthday party.
Except for his socio-economic classes. He always said, ‘You gotta be there! Mr.Bee is the best!’
And so I went for every single one, came to idolize Mr.Bee as much as I did Chester. Because they spoke words that stuck. No matter how sleepy and watery-eyed you felt, their words got through.

I sulked on the days I was left behind, forgotten. And then, without warning, there came a last time for that too. I still remember Mr.Bee, in his crisp clothes and posture, he looked us in the eyes as he went on one of his rambles.
‘You only truly fade away, or shall I say, death only truly ever happens, when someone thinks of you for the last time. Your memories are all you leave behind, so, create the best ones. I shall always remember you, and I wish you luck with your graduation, my dear students.’

Now that I think of it, that was a perfect last time. Those words echoed in my head now, like our voices did when Chester and I played hide and seek in the woods. Far away. Resounding. Familiar.

And all these last times, I realize now, have been my guideposts. They lingered to say, your time’s coming. You’ll soon be one of us now.
But time and memories, they tend to give you a heaviness. Not like the times we sneaked extra helpings of ice-cream at night. This roots you to the spot, makes your heart clench up. My time’s coming. And, for Chester, I shall stay until I fade.

Time rushes forth, and all of a sudden, I stand under the old beech tree again, with more memories than reality. This time though, I will remember my last time.

I fought hard to keep my eyes from blurring out Chester. His scrawny frame under those billowing clothes. His fuzzy brown hair, golden under the sun. His little nose, freckled and tanned. He threw a stone into the lake, got up and dusted his pants.
With an air of finality, he looked back at the beech tree, gave me a distant smile, got into his car and drove away.

Fifteen years worth of memories, he now left behind. It slowly took the shape of another scrawny little kid that sat under the tree, struggling to hold back tears, reminiscing. I sat there for a long time. I watched the day fade into the night for the very last time.

What a thing to have been, I thought and smiled. An imaginary friend. Mr.Bee’s words echoed through the years, and I imagined Chester sitting next to me. I laughed at the irony, at the unexpected reversal of our roles. But at least today, he and I might fade away together.

One last time.