The Tree That Never Flowered

Once upon a time, just outside a sweet, little village, there lived a simple family with four daughters. In front of their little cottage stood many an old tree. One of them was a Dogwood.

However, this tree was not merely a tree. Oh, no. It was a doorway to cozy cottages, hidden chambers, bustling hospitals, and enchanting worlds. It was an ivory perch for exuberant birds, frisky squirrels, and giggling children. It was a tree of many trades.

For nine years, it watched the girls and all their companions grow in wisdom and stature but never too old for imagination. It served all its purposes well, except for one -- the Dogwood never flowered.

Every year all the other trees in the village burst forth in their seasonal radiance. Crepe Myrtle, Bradford Pear, Japanese Magnolia, and Dogwood, all flowered except for the girls' Dogwood.

Perhaps all it threw all its energy into accommodating the playmates; perhaps it was just old and weary. Whatever the case, spring always came and went, with narry a flower on the Dogwood.

One of the four girls, the oldest girl, always considered how melancholy the tree must have been, being a flowering tree that never flowered. "What a perfect poem that would be," she'd romantically think to herself, and in her artistic endeavors, she's shut herself up awaiting the nymph called Inspiration. But, no words she penned did proper justice to the dear, old tree.

Eight years passed, and the girls and the tree grew older together. The girls grew busy, and their playful jaunts beneath the Dogwood became shorter and sparser.

One spring day, after a long morning of studies, the oldest girl arrived at her dear, little home. She climbed out of her modest wagon and gathered her books. Weary in spirit, she looked about herself upon the familiar sight. But she stopped short.

What did she see perched delicately on the Dogwood? If her eyes did not betray her, there were pink flowers on the Dogwood!

But perhaps the sun was toying the the leaves. She dropped her things and rushed over to see the Dogwood clearer, but the sun wasn't plotting tricks. There were, indeed, frail and dainty, but indisputable blushing blooms adorning the sweet tree.

Of course, much rejoicing quickly filled the cottage of the little women to overflowing. Never was a simple work of nature more pleasing in a human's sight. If possible, the tree became even more esteemed in the girls' hearts. It was the pride and joy of their spring.

And, guess what. The next year, that dear, old Dogwood bloomed again.

Maybe it just needed eight years of tender love from four motherly figures. Maybe it was just saving a pleasant delight for a weary soul. Maybe...

But whatever the reasons, that dear, old tree will always be watered with love.