When I Talked to a Tree

An emerald stone could not compare to the pigment of the rolling hills; the sight of them left you frozen with satisfaction. It was here I first met you. Studying you for the first time, your branches seemed to tickle to sun and caress the moon. Your roots were strong and provided comfort when I would sit between them. As I grew your bark crackled, creating external veins that ran up your trunk. You seem smaller now, yet still as impressive as you were back then. Is this how you truly are? Was the warmth I felt nothing but mere illusion? I feel you as I did then, but aged bark and caliced skin prevent you from returning to the sensation.  

I was so young, months ago, although it seems such a small passing of time to value significant personal change. Then again, maturity is not measured by age or any time for that matter, only experience and understanding. You have always been forbidden to me, for you belong to our neighbor, illustrious for his ill-mannered temper and hatred of my family. I have been warned frequently to ignore the glisten of your leaves and the character of your appearance that first caught my attention, but every hill could be seen from your branches, every person observed and every action studied secretly. I was filled with youthful independence when I met you; I wondered why someone would follow rules molded by another’s experiences.

During warm nights I would sneak to you, place myself on your top branches and together we would watch stars illuminate the sky. You provoked thought in me, more than any human. I pondered many questions without the ability to express them; you allowed me to wonder without judgment. What is a beautiful thing, why is it considered beautiful? Fields were filled with flowers, all different colors, shapes and smells, yet surrounded by such an array of striking diversity I was taken aback only by the beauty of the tree I gripped tightly.

Most teenagers my age confess themselves to a peer or mentor; I confessed to you. Why you ask?  Who better to listen that a great tree, alone in the midst of many hills, watching waves in the grassy ocean for leisure and resting beneath the stars. You had the strength to withstand harsh storms, droughts and months of frost. For these qualities, I valued your company more than any seventh grade drop out surrounding me. How ironic past events can be; I knew you were more than an unresponsive audience, yet you lived a life no living thing could empathize with; and because of your form you were unable to tell tales and respond to others. I could feel the silence devour you from the inside.

In order to put my strange thoughts at ease, I wrote down every word, every thought I had shaded by you. My writing included philosophies, anything metaphysical, and thoughts concerning you. One evening I tried to capture you as I envisioned you in my mind; a slightly older boy with deep eyes and an old, wise soul. Crickets watched the sun dip beneath the hills and began to sing their lullaby. I settled between your largest roots and listened to their symphony. A light from coming out of the tall grass appeared; it was my neighbor’s lantern. I ran from his sight, climbed our hill, and was greeted by the warm glow of my house. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief but was interrupted by a shock to my stomach; my journal still rested beneath you still.

Clouds hoarded the sky that night, casting a blue shadow on the colorless world. The hills are a surreal space at night, enclosed by an aura protecting them from time; I had stepped into an undying twilight. I reached the indented grass where my book lay, but you were not there; there was no trace you had ever been. How was this possible, how could a tree just disappear?  I stood where your center should be and childishly scanned the hills to see if ,for some divine reason, you had moved. Stupefied, I stared into the twilight, imaging you and your rough texture. My active imagination could produce you temporarily, but could not recreate you. I climbed our hill slowly, barely noticing the disappearing blue pigment, replaced by the sun’s yawn.

My foot touched the warm wooden floor as light blinded me through the opposite window. I rolled my pants above my ankles; they dripped of the previous night’s rain. I traced the stonewalls of the house. You had to be real, I sat between your roots; I read to you and you shaded me, protected me, and listened to me. How can something remembered so vividly never be felt again?

I shut the door quietly and gentle knock echoed from the outside. Frozen, I stared at the door. The knock occurred again. Peering out the peephole,  I wondered who would knock this early at a country house. A boy around my age stared back through the small hole. His appearance was attractive and his eyes contained a fire lacked by most; I knew not to open the door for strangers but my hand turned faster than my mind. I opened the old wooden door.

I peered out into the freshly watered world and saw his head down, sopping wet as the grass. This boy held a book in his hands, gripped tightly. He looked up, his deep eyes filling me.

“I believe you left this.” The boy said. He looked as if he knew something valuable.

“Yes, this is my journal”, I said perplexed, “ I left it in the fields last night by the- never mind, but how did it come into your possession?”

“I know you did.” He said with a slight grin. “You always lay it by the two biggest roots.”

My eyes widened. Two possibilities raced through my mind.

“Have, have you been watching me?”

A strange voice echoed behind the boy.

“Come on boy! Grandson my foot, you ain’t worth a damn! Which son’s are you again? I don’t care if you’re only visiting for the day; no working boy gets special privileges! Get back to the farm and plow!” It was my neighbor.   

The boy’s head did not turn to acknowledge the old man,  he gave only a glance of the eyes. When he looked my direction I was stared at him. The boy handed me the book, the veins in his arm were strong and traveled up his sleeve. I tried to speak.

“I’m crazy aren’t I? You can’t be the-”

“I must go”, He said with an amused expression, “I figured you would want this back.”

We both grasped the book; he pulled it and I fell into him. As the book met the ground, he embraced me tightly. Although caught off guard I did not want this stranger to release me.

“The grassy hills here are beautiful”, he said concluding the hug, “I have enjoyed them and the stars for many years now.”

I stared with an enlightened expression. “Will I ever see you again?”

The boy smiled. “I see you every day. I certainly hope that doesn’t change.”

Words had left me. His eyes caught mine while bending down to retrieve my fallen journal. His soft hand reached mine, my eyes never left his.

“Goodbye”, he said smiling, handing me the book.

“Goodbye”, I whispered.

I studied the book for only a moment and he had reached my neighbor at the top of the opposite hill. The boy gave a meek wave and grinned, he picked up a basket of fruit and disappeared over the knoll; the sun following him.

I closed the door, knowing there would be no faint knock from the other side. In my state of ecstasy, I noticed a bump within the pages of the journal. I began flipping through my writing; a small twig was placed within the last two pages.  My hand graced the indentations of the unfamiliar handwriting, it read;

“You were right, my friend. Silence devours you from the inside. Thank you for your warmth, stories, and faith.”

I did not breathe for several seconds. He was real; the tree himself was real, his soul was real. But how was he, and for who, me? I burst through the door, journal in hand. The hills were hard to climb, still slick from lingering raindrops.  I reached the top to observe you as you always were, where you have always been. I jogged to your base to find your leaves flourishing, accompanied by small pink flowers. Smiling, I placed the journal between your two largest roots with a response to your note;

“The stars have always been beautiful, and now we both have stories.”

As I climbed my hill, I glanced back at the red journal safe underneath you. I smiled to myself; you had proven you possessed more life than most creatures ever created. Why? Prayer only gets you so far, the belief in the impossible may make a desire achievable; the freedom of your soul allowed you to roam wherever you desired, even if your soil did belong to my neighbor.