Do Touch

“Don’t touch that.” I always heard that sentence from my mother growing up. As a kid, I had to have my hands on everything. I couldn’t walk by clothing racks in a department store without running my hands along all the different shirts and sweaters hanging on the poles and folded on the tables. I would feel walls of every hallway. They were always a unique. There were the textured walls, tiles of the hospital my parents worked in, smoothed drywall painted with layers on layers of paint.

“You’re going to get sick putting your hands on everything.” My mother tried everything to keep my hands to myself, trying to instill the same fear of germs that my brothers had. She was probably right. I did get sick all the time. Even now. I understood what she was trying to say, I just didn’t care. I couldn’t stop.

“What are you doing?” my boyfriend said to me the day after we moved into our new apartment. I just wanted to touch the tree. It looked so different. It wasn’t like anything I would have come across before. “I just want to know what it feels like,” I said to him as he shook his head at me, walking inside with our dog.

This tree is different for me. Walking through a store, I can feel how soft a sweater is and move on. I don’t need to go back. Walls are always different, but none of them drove me crazy. I park next to my tree every day. Every day I run my fingers along its branches, feeling something new every time.

It all started with the top half, the rebirth from the stump in the ground. Its smooth yet bumpy skin running along the narrow branches. My fingers are interrupted frequently by the small twigs sticking out, holding leaves in the spring and summer. It feels bumpy to the touch, but those lumps are smooth. There’s no fear of sharp edges or splinters. It’s gentle, fragile, yet tough.

As I make my way down, my hand can rest on the edges of the previous stump. Inches of flat, worn wood make their way around the edges of the new branches, which were not large enough to take on the size of the tree that previously stood in their place. I touch the ridges of the rings that have blurred together from their exposure over however many years. It forms a clear line between the new and the old.

The old stump comes up to my knees. It is dark, much darker than the branches above. The bark is thick and jagged. Pieces of it crumble under too much pressure. The deep ridges lead my fingers into different patterns. A never-ending maze to follow.

There is something about the different textures that I can’t figure out. It continually makes me question its history. I wonder how long it has been there. How much time went into the wear and tear of its surface. Will its new branches be the same someday? When I leave someday, will the new tenant feel the power and history of any of this?