Green - A Short Story

I adore the spring. The world and myself grow more beautiful each day. There is just enough breeze to make me dance. Gone is the horrid Autumnal ageing of all around me, the sad bouts of winter. Life can be lonely as an evergreen, but here we are, the month of May, and the beautiful little girl has come to visit today. She doesn’t visit much in winter, except to clip Holly. Holly’s clippings bring so much joy to the little girl’s face in the festive season. She takes many photos and paints many pictures of Holly on frosty mornings. Sometimes, I wish I were Holly, but Holly doesn’t receive the year-round attention that I do. The beautiful girl pruned some of my branches today - just one side though, most odd. There is a graceful lady who joins the girl sometimes. They converse in a language I cannot understand. It is the most beautiful language I’ve ever heard. It dances with me in the wind. Their smiles admire my posture; they outline my figure with their hands. I long to stretch out my branches and unfurl them unto their arms.

They took Uncle Bramblegaria away the other day. I don’t know where they took him, but I am delighted he has gone. His cumbersome branches were an eyesore, and he seemed to have quite a temper. I remember when I was first planted next to him, I spent every night of that first season praying he wouldn’t entwine me in his brambles. He was such a wretched Uncle, but no one would confess their true feelings to his berry-ridden face. Nevertheless, now I sleep, content, bloomful in the knowledge that the beautiful girl has realised the eminence of my beauty and rewarded my patience with more room for me to grow.

The dawn of my first wholly beautiful day, and I wake to find the most heinous intrusion of my new space. Jasmine has been planted next to me. Jasmine - with her pure white blooms and sparkling leaves reflecting the brilliant morning sun. Now, it is Jasmine they admire for her posture, her foliage, the fragility of her beautiful decoration. What is to become of me? I wilt a little, in sheer awe of ornamental Jasmine. The wind drops me and sends a cold shiver prickling to my roots. The beautiful girl’s face relives the excitement of Holly all those months ago, but who is this Jasmine? How long will she stay?

The growth of Jasmine’s beauty surpasses mine every day. Each morning sprouts a barrage of new blooms, and I am left, evergreen and ever envious. I cannot suffer any more. She cannot remain. Jasmine is beautiful, so beautiful; if only I could reach her if only I could touch her, feel her beauty; if only I could entwine her, strangle her, from root to shoot; if only we could have been the same; if only, if only...

But I never wanted to make the beautiful little girl cry.