Trees have been doing the same thing longer than any can remember. Someone once said this to me, but I can’t remember whom anymore. All I know is how wrong it felt then, the fact they’ve done the same thing for so long. I wonder why? It’s not so bad. Why would it be? I’m an Old Tree. Several million seasons old, give or take a few. And the last. One of the very first few trees made in fact. For the Old Trees, being made was the bug under the bark. For some seasons now, no other trees than I have had knowing that trees even can be. Planted sure, but being made isn’t done anymore. I grow in the Arboreaum. A place none but trees have ever known. A paradise for a tree. So much sunlight and soil that I could never want in millions more seasons to come. Or so I thought. There’s been a nagging itch in my branches. Not from any of the younger trees. Not from trees at all in fact. There’s something I’ve forgotten. And it rankles my bark.