Hollow

This started as a prompt at @https://writershour.substack.com/ called Conversation With A Place, which was intriguing but I took too long over it to submit it so I'll post it here.

You’ve been quiet.

I was sleeping.

I couldn’t hear you. I didn’t know where you were. I thought you’d gone off somewhere. I was lonely.

I was here all the time.

I know that now but I didn’t know it then. I’m not as smart as I used to be. Time strips the smarts out of you. And you seem different somehow. So anyway, you could have told me. Or you could have left a note. Just reached up a little way to the big crack, the one where you and Lucy used to leave messages for each other.

Okay. I am sorry. I was busy and I was tired. And you can’t read anyway.

You could have told Lucy to read it out loud to me.

She wouldn’t have found it. She doesn’t come by here anymore. It would have months, years, before anybody ever saw it and by then it would have been nothing but paper mache.

I know. But in the unlikely event that she ever did come by it would have been there, waiting for her. And I would have known it was there. That would have been something. Or you could have wrapped it in something waterproof and left it on the grass among my roots for somebody else to find. Could have asked them to take it to Lucy or to read it to me themselves. Maybe someone who already knows about us.

Like who? Do you imagine that I used to go round telling people. Hey guys. My best friend is a tree. Here’s a photo. He’s hollow. I used to hide in him when I was little and I was scared. My sister did too.

You were here a lot.

I was scared a lot. My dad used to get mad if somebody drank his beer. My mum got mad because she was in a lot of pain with her leg and because Jimmy Adams called her Hoppity. Mrs Williamson was mad at me for pointing out that she misspelled things on the whiteboard. Rosemary Vincent was mad at me because I kissed her and my mouth tasted of gum. She forgave me though. At least I think she did.

That’s a lot of people mad at you.

I was that kind of kid. A provocateur. I’d come here just to escape from it all, them all. Sometimes just to crawl inside you and talk. I knew you’d listen. And I liked the way you smelled. You were musty and wholesome then.

You could still come by from time to time. I can still listen.

You smell different now though. Bitter. Sharp. You feel different too. All crumby and flaky.

Sorry.

When I go I’ll be all covered in black stuff. I’ll have to scrub for hours to get it off. My clothes will be filthy. My mum will be mad at me again. Then I might need you, burned though you may be. Just like when I used to come with Lucy.

I miss Lucy.

I know you do. So do I. I’m sure she misses you too.

She might have forgotten about me. About us.

I doubt it. We spent a lot of time here. Before the storm. You were hollow and empty then but you were a living thing. Part of an ecosystem. Now you’re just a place. A mark on a map. A rendezvous point. Somewhere for lovers to carve their initials, food for woodlice, a source of nest building materials. When I leave I’ll go and see Lucy. I’ll tell her you said hello.

When you leave.

If I leave.

Will you leave?

I won’t leave.

Promise?

Promise.