It has only been perhaps three hours since I wrote How Fate Makes A Familiar Dance Partner Of Guilt, and already something new has happened.
I had finished cleaning my room, and called my father to have him fetch the hammer for me, since my mother had already proven herself unwilling. My father brought over the hammer, giving me the history of the Portuguese word for it, martelo, and how it became a surname, and then proceeded to give me the history of surnames. My old man, he is very wise, although a bit excessive at times.
Anyhow, upon going the tree, we discovered not only was there one nail, but four more nails placed sporadically around the first one that I had not noticed. I felt so terrible; while my father hacked off some of the bark to get to most of the nails, all I could do was lean against the trunk and silently send the tree feelings of comfort with my mind.
Almost insantaneously, I felt one arm wrap around my shoulders, the warm pressure reassuring. I felt soft patience waft towards me from the tree, reminiscent of the calm, stiffening anticipation before treating a wound with disinfectant.
I also felt the love again. It was made not as prominent by the anticipation of pain, but it was still there. Again, I shrugged out of the embrace, this time to pull out some of the nails.
We pulled out all but one nail, which my father said was being devoured by the wood; the wood had already started to grow around it.
"Dad, will it be alright?"
"The tree? The tree'll be fine. Humans live long, healthy lives with weapon debris in them all the time. I once heard..."
This is quite the turn of events, indeed. One thing is for certain, though: that tree isn't in pain any longer, and that brings me peace of mind.