With a reaper, I'm a dreamer. Good God, I'm a believer!

When John was born his father planted a tree for him. The boy and tree both grew up tall and strong. Throughout the years the tree provided shade, a place to hang a tire swing, and branches to house a tree fort.

By the time both tree and boy were twenty they looked invincible. Both had weathered vicious storms, the tree literally while the boy had seemingly made it to adulthood relatively unscathed. The two shared tattoos. The carved a replica of the "I Love Susan" inked on his chest onto the tree's trunk.

One day the boy decided to check out his old tree fort. He climbed the shaky ladder and stood looking out over his family's yard. What seemed so massive when he was a boy had suddenly miniaturized. He had to lean out the window in order to actually see anything. The view was not the only thing that had weakened in the years. As the boy leaned, the weakened wood of the window gave way and John fell. He grabbed a hold of a branch only to hear the faint cracking of a branch.

As the paramedics came up they knew immediately something was terribly wrong. John was on the ground, his left arm bent unnaturally, his right arm bleeding profusely. He was unconscious and the broken branch laid across his back.

At the hospital, the bad news reached his parents. John's right arm was broken and slightly infected from the compound fracture. The left elbow had been dislocated so severely it would have to be amputated. He had two broken vertebrae and would probably never walk again. John's father did what any boy's father would do. He went home and attacked that tree.

He took off all the branches, swing the one that still held the tire swing for last. Taking out all his grief he destroyed that branch with a vengeance. The phone rang. He ignored it. He had more pressing issues. He picked up an ax and swung right into the tree's tattoo. The tree split disjointedly across. The phone rang again.

He answered this time. It was his wife. It looked like Johnny was going to lose his other arm. The infection would not subside. John's dad hung up the phone and picked up the ax. It took three hours, but eventually the tree was down to a stump. The old man spit on the remains of the tree and went into the house.

He showered and headed back to the hospital. He felt avenged. Until the doctor came out of the operating room and shook his head. The infection had gotten into John's bloodstream and killed him. John's dad finally began to cry.

With the wood of the tree, John's dad made his own son's coffin and when John was laid to rest, he was buried beneath where the old stump had stood. The old man planted a new tree for a gravestone in John's memory. It grew strong. Weathered all storms.

When the old man was on his own death bed he asked for no more doctor's help. He wanted to die at home. He spent the remaining days in a chair outside, sitting in the shade of his son's tree. Every night before he was taken back inside he would hug the trunk of the tree and whisper "I'm sorry son. I'm sorry."