There is a tree that never asked me to stop. I stopped anyway. where the shade felt heavier than the sun. I asked the air: what is the difference between living and not being dead? The leaves did not answer. The ground did not open. I was the only one breathing, and even that felt borrowed. I have been not dead for years. I have been standing still and calling it survival. But the voice that follows me is not my own, and it keeps saying the word I fear most. Under the tamarind tree, I let the question hold me like a jaw. Not living, not gone— just waiting to be pulled back into the light. I could have stayed there until the roots knew my shape, until the birds forgot I was not a stone. But something in my chest kept beating, small and stupid and unafraid. Not because I wanted to live. Because even the hollowest thing knows how to return. The earth was dry, but not without a path. The body was tired, but not without a pulse. And the voice came back, not as a prayer, but as a hand pressed flat against my back. Under the tamarind tree, I let the question hold me like a jaw. Not living, not gone— just waiting to be pulled back into the light. If this is the bottom, then the only way left is not falling. It is standing. It is walking again. The tree did not bless me. It just stood there long enough for me to remember I was still standing.
