Even Talking Trees Die

by Matt Bliss

The tree talked to me. 

“I have something to tell you,” it said to me in a voice clearer than an August night in South Fork. I was only seven then, awkward with those pudgy little arms and fingers that scraped and bloodied against the bark that I climbed. It was the perfect tree for climbing, too. Too large to wrap around, and too tall to grab even the lowest of the branches, but the trunk held knots and stubs like a ladder to lift you up into a network of tangled green and brown tentacles with just a few steps. In the canopy above lived another world hidden from even the tallest passersby. 

“Can you hear me?” the tree asked, speaking again in a bass-filled whisper. It was as I would have imagined, the exact voice of a tree. Both hard and soft, muffled yet loud, it was something like static that raised every hair on the back of my neck. 

I settled between the two largest branches in a crook that seemed made perfect to fit my slight frame. I felt every sway and groan of the wood beneath me, and I strained to hear that voice again past the wind rustling through the leaves, making them dance around me. 

“I know who you are,” the voice continued. “Can you hear me?” 

“Hello?” I said, scanning for a mouth or face or anything that could make a tree talk, and I swear to you, the tree then laughed. This time I found the source—a hole in the center trunk echoed out another playful giggle, and I pressed my ear close to it. “How do you know who I am?” I asked.  

“Oh, I know much about you. Trees can do that. After all, we were here long before you and will still be here long after you’re gone.” 

I couldn’t help it. I pressed a sap-ridden hand to my lips to stifle my own laugh.  

“I know your favorite color is green, and that you prefer cats to dogs because of the drool, and I even know that you sometimes run your toothbrush under the faucet without actually brushing your teeth.” 

“How do you—” 

“I also know you are the bravest kid in all of second grade. And that you are never afraid to stand up for your friends when they need it. You make sure everyone is included and share your lunch if someone else is hungry. I know your heart is bigger than an oak tree, even if you’re not as tall as one, and I know that lately, your big heart aches.” 

I pressed my ear deeper into the hole, hanging on every word, filling my breath with its earthy scent. 

“I know everything about you. I even know what will happen next.” 

“No,” I said, snapping up. “You don’t know that. No one does.” 

“Oh, but I do. I can see it. I see hard times coming and more heartache, in fact. Nevertheless, your big heart will see you through. Others will need you, too. You’ll help them just like those hungry friends at school. I need you to be brave during this next part. For everyone.” 

Tears stained my vision. I didn’t want to talk about this. Not now. Not here. No one knew what would happen. Not my parents, or the doctors, or anyone for that matter. What if they were wrong? What if there was a happily ever after? A sob held jagged in my throat, preventing me from speaking.  

“What I also see is you growing up to be as big as your heart. In the center though, I see that pain. I see a hole much like the one in the center of this tree. It will always be there, but I will always be there, too. Inside you. Inside that big ol’ heart because I know it’s large enough to fit me. And you’ll carry me to all the places I won’t go. To your first day of high school, and your first school dance, and even that first terrifying moment when you learn how to drive. You will carry me with you. Sometimes growing despite the holes inside is more magic than a talking tree.” 

“But what if you’re wrong?” I asked. “What if you get better?” 

“Then nothing changes. No matter what happens, I will always love you, and you can carry that love with you forever.” 

I sat up, wiped the back of my hand beneath my nose, and looked down at my mother waiting at the bottom. She pulled her hand from the bark, hunched over her cane, and smiled up at me. 

“You okay, kiddo?” she asked.  

I nodded, and jumped down the entire way, trying not to let on how much the landing hurt. 

It took several more months before the cancer won. I wish those days were painted with magic and blue skies and leaves that danced in the wind, but sadly, they were not. Those were the worst days of all. 

At her request, they buried her at the base of that tree, in a plot just near the hole low along the trunk that connected to a hole up above at the crook of two branches made perfect for a too-small seven-year-old to fit. I went there often over the years, pressing my ear to the hole, eager to hear her whisper to me from below once more, but I never heard those magic words again. 

I visit her less and less as the years go by. Long ago, I stopped climbing the tree. Instead, I whisper into the hole, as she did so long ago. I tell whoever is listening above that she was right. The real magic of life is growing despite the holes in your heart and carrying the love you received along the way inside of it.