“If we knock off these walls here, we could have a nice conservatory right next to our living room,” Harry heard his dad talking. He was probably hunching over the blueprint again and discussing the house plan with mom.
“That’s a splendid idea! We could have a nice sunlit room to entertain guests,” his mother was saying.
After nearly a decade, his parents were renovating their home. Harry stepped out of his room to join the conversation.
“The architect thinks that we should get rid of the maple tree. He suggests getting vertical gardens and bonsais instead. I think that’s a great idea,” Harry heard his dad say.
Harry stopped in his tracks. His stomach churned. Don’t be a baby, he tried telling himself. It is just a tree. But it was not just a tree, it was Sharman. Conflicted, Harry went back to his room and shut the door.
Harry had named his maple tree ‘Sharman’, as a little boy. That tree was his sole companion. Every day, he would peacefully lie on Sharman’s protruding roots and tell him about his day at school. Sharman too, Harry believed, listened to him, nodding now and then. Sharman was not eloquent. But Harry could somehow understand him. Sometimes, the mighty tree would sway gently to light up the little boy’s face. Other times, he would go from being beautiful green to bright orange and shower crimson leaves upon Harry when they played.
Over the years, Sharman had become his best friend. But, as they say, all good things come to an end. And that’s what happened. As Harry grew up, his friendship with Sharman became more distant. Why? The little boy was bullied by his friends at school for befriending a tree. It had been years since Harry had spoken to Sharman.
That night, after a sombre supper, Harry found himself tossing and turning in his bed. He woke up the next morning knowing the right thing to do.
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