For Kamal.

The Conversation Tree at the t-junction by the sea-wall road been get mash-up, bruk-up in the final years; it did look like a thin, brown, shrivel-up creature waiting to draw last breath. Them asymmetrical, wind-blown leaves drop off and baldness take over. Then one day some months ago the thing dead. Dead, dead, deader dan dead, not even jumbie want to haunt there no more.

Only a dry stump been in that triangle patch of earth with wild grass shimmying-up in the wind. Buses, cars, trucks, even horse carts zoops by. I don’t know if anybody notice the demise of that ancient meeting tree. In them ole days, plenty, plenty years ago, before this li’l, shrivel-up tree, a giant tree did grow; there people use to share news and views as they wait for transportation; boys and girls use to flirt and who knows what romance did blossom.

Not long after, a letter and photo get publish in one o’ we newspapers. The photo was dramatical, Conversation Tree in dialogue with Full Moon some years ago. If you put your ear to the photo you coulda almost hear the ocean across them roads going whoosha-whashaa; if you look close you coulda see magic.

The letter wasn’t a long psychobabbling piece like plenty letters to we newspapers. Was just a few lines about the death of the tree. Yet in them spaces between them lines I read sadness for the loss of beauty. The letter writer sign, Kamal Ramkarran. I ain’t know he, but when you live in a small place you learn li’l things about them folks you share oxygen with; he is a lawyer in he late twenties, a decent chap. Maybe he letter gon influence somebody.

Tides come and tides go. One morning, a man appear at the junction, he straight, frail hair fluttering in the breeze. He could pass in a crowd of East Indian grandfathers anywhere. The bucket in he hand on a very public road make me notice he. A younger, sturdier man been digging away with a spade. They plant a tender, green limb with two young shoots. I assume they put in the new, makeshift wood fence around the plant.

Well! History, as all o’ we know, looooove to repeat itself.

In the past, every time somebody put fence or wall around the ole tree, the barricade get bang-down at nights by drunks driving fast cars.

The new wood fence get knock down.

Except this time, it happen in brazen daylight. A truck park he bahind to the tree. The truck look stuck, constipated on the grass slope. A small group o’ men giving directions to the driver.

“Mammy, stop,” I ask as we approach the scene on the East Coast Road.

“Don’t say anything, they gon cuss you,” my mother say. My mother live in fear of men here cussing me, attacking me.

“Noooo, just stop man, stop being so fearful.”

She slow down the car.

“Y’all knock down the thing,” I chide, putting on me worriedest face.

They fix-up the fence.

“See? Nothin’ to fret about,” I tell mammy.

Too hard a knock, too much rain, the new tree get poorly, look like it lost marbles, pennies and possibilities.

The man with the bucket, the spade and the gardener reappear.

The wood fence disappear.

White-painted boulders pop-up around the triangle patch of earth.

Heh. Funny how drunk people NEVER drive into big white boulders, even at nights.

Now, the tree is slender, tall, tie on to a wood stake. Frilly-frilly leaves, pale green and delicate, flutter-flutter in the sea breeze. I think is a flambouyante tree. I can’t wait for it to mature. In May-June, flambouyante trees all over the land does blaze with flame-red flowers.

Thinking of the tree, I remember a quote I did read somewhere, is from the Talmud. “Every blade of grass has its angel that bends over it and whispers, Grow, grow.” I hope them angels whisper to we Conversation Tree.