The fake tree does not need looking after. It stands a little askew reminding me it’ll never change. No leaves will wilt, colour, fall, or grow. It’s a static thing. Its presence reminds me what we had was always impermanent. What we had wilted faded and fell. I was fake. You were fake. But what fell felt real.
You told me we couldn’t keep real trees, who would water them, you said. The others look sad now, they need permanent care and no-one is willing to do it. Instead we will fill the room with great tall trees with plastic leaves and twinkle lights and hollow pots and think we have done a fine job.
I remember I stole a fake tree once. Dragged it along a corridor in some fancy hotel by the scruff of its leaves. In the morning I woke to see it looking at me, forlorn, leaves missing, saying nothing. I wondered how it had got there. (How much had I drunk?). How could I get it out with no-one seeing.
The fake tree asks for nothing, requires no attention, doesn’t need looking after. I despise fake trees. They remind me of me.