Today they opened a post office. I suppose that makes it an official town.

Somepony noticed that I am a house for books. None of them had come close enough to notice the sign before. Too busy with their farms and their mail, I suppose. He ran off, and an hour later here I am, surrounded by curious ponies.

One opens my door. It is unlocked; it never had a lock. The ponies file inside, and I feel their hooves exploring. They look at the books, they lift them from my shelves, they put them back, and they leave.

They go back to their farms and their general stores and their post office.

She hasn’t come back. Not in half a century.

There have been foals who came inside and borrowed books. Young ponies who threw books from my shelves, and others who clucked and sighed and put them back. Old, creaky ponies who lightened my shelves by one book, and sat for a time before replacing it and finding their way out.

The town has grown, and new trees have sprouted up. They have a hard time believing that there was ever a forest here. Though they are nearly fully grown, I still call them each “sapling.”

Ponies like to sit in their shade and talk, or sip their drinks, or chase each other and laugh. I seems odd that I feel more connection to the ponies than the other trees. But it occurs to me that I have been around ponies for more of my life than I have been around other trees. I watch the ponies grow. I watch the town grow. I watch the trees grow.

But I do not grow. I am frozen where I am, neither rotting nor growing. Just… waiting.

Waiting for what? I do not know. But I wait.

Today, a mare stands in front of me. A magic one, with the wide eyes and impatient energy of youth. The tall pony reminded me of myself after I was burned; this one reminds me of myself before that. I can smell her on this little one.

A very long time ago, as a sapling with only a few leaves, I wondered what it would be like to need someone. Looking back, it seems that I had needed someone, and she needed me. I was catharsis for her, and she for me. We did not speak, but we shared much. More than I knew.

And now I see this filly – this sapling the color of lavenders and indigo – standing at my threshold and looking up at me.

As old as I am, I have lacked foresight. This filly steps inside me and I hear her gasp.

As large as I am, I have lacked scope. Books fly off my shelves, and I am filled with a warmth I have not felt since the tall pony burned like the sun inside of me. I am a place for her. She needs me, and I understand now that I have always needed someone.

As wise as I like to think I am, I have lacked joy.

I feel her hooves dance.