Faith Island

The picture reminded me of a place from my youth. I called it 'Faith Island'. I have no idea what the place was really called or whether it was large enough for anyone else to have ever given it a name. It was small, only enough room for one tree to grow. Sure enough, there was a tree there, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by water.

Had someone planted that tree a while back? I never knew. Surely it was a desolate island, once upon a time. Maybe someone rowed out to it, had lunch, and then left trash behind. There could have been a seed that germinated, taking root before the remainder of the trash decayed or was washed away in a flood. Perhaps a bird brought the seed there, or it was carried there on a stiff breeze. Maybe it came on the stronger wind of a storm.

Whenever I thought about it, several possible scenarios came to mind for why that lonely tree took root in the empty, exposed lake's heart surrounded only by the tranquil water.

Taking a rowboat one afternoon, I went there with a girl I liked. For me it was a chance. To her it was something to do one lazy summer day. I told her a story about how the tree was magical. It had to be, because it had faith to grow where nothing else would, except for some sparse clumps of grass that had taken root. I said, "If you make a wish on the tree, it would have to come true."

She kissed me as a measure in small payment for telling my fabrication as if it were the truth.

"See," I said. "The magic of the tree works, 'cause my wish came true."