"When I die: plant a tree," the note read. "Better still: plant a forest." The note was signed and dated, but I couldn't read the signature.
"Any clues?" Bert asked. I shook my head.
"No. No ID, just a request to plant a few trees." I put the note in the tray with the other "possessions" belonging to the corpse that lay on the table in front of us. Bert shook his head.
"Another unknown body. Maybe his DNA will be in the system."
We continued the autopsy. The man had died of natural causes, the most natural cause of all - hypothermia. He'd been found in the park by an early morning runner.
I finished up and as I washed my hands I couldn't help thinking about the man's request. Maybe I wouldn't plant a forest for him. But the least I could do was plant a tree.
On my way home I called in at the garden centre and bought an apple tree.
...
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STOPSad, and yet ... still beautiful.
One of the last of the classic American hobos was named Hobo Shoestring, who lived into the YouTube age -- Mark Nichols was his name, and one of the stories he told was how many hobos kept later generations of hobos and poor people alive by planting fruit trees as they went. Those trees have now outlived the time of the hobos in general, but still are feeding people. Your story captures something very deep...