The Talking Tree

“You still care about him? After everything?”

Collin’s words stirred hesitation inside of me as she voiced them in the quiet, the two of us nestled in the gnarled lap of my old Talking Tree’s roots, named so many years ago when my brother Adam and I would come here to play. Far beyond the fence of the old, run-down elementary school’s decaying playground, in the middle of the vast expanse of grain and grass, well hidden away from any city noise, was a patch of flowers circling an elderly, stout oak. He and I came here to escape, to pretend, and sometimes just to talk where we would not be heard. We’d climb up the trunk, reach the first bough, and then tumble back down on our way to the second, every time hitting the thick growth of clovers below and bouncing back, bruised, but giggling, and raring to try again.

We’d come back late, dirty, scraped, and covered in grass stains, tracking mud through the kitchen. Mom hated that, but she never told us not to go. She’d always say it was okay with her as long as we took care of each other and returned home before the sun went down. Even the few times we didn’t make it back till well after the glow of the streetlights were the only thing illuminating our youthful footsteps, stumbling inside trailing fireflies and dandelion fluff, she never disapproved of our adventures. She was always good to us, even with the hell we kids put her through. She even joined us a few times, packing up some snacks and a good book, picnicking out under the Talking Tree. She’d sit with us till the stars came out, listening to our tranquil laughter and chatter and the steady thud… thud… thud… as we repeatedly tackled the challenge of the climb.

Yes, it was our tree. Our tree until the day Adam found he was finally tall enough to reach that second bough. Suddenly, “our” tree became “my” tree. Mine and mine alone.

“Of course I do,” I eventually reply, my voice soft as if it was afraid to shatter the delicate peace that hung in the air of this untouched shrine to innocence, “No matter what he may have done to me, he’s still my brother, and more importantly, he’s still a person… in fact, it’s his mistakes and his regret that proves he’s still human.”

“I guess you’re right,” my eccentric friend responds, picking leaves out of her pale green braids, “I wouldn’t know, anyway. Personally, I would never forgive him. Guess I don’t know the first thing about being human.”

There was a stillness as we mutually contemplated that statement. Her words had come out in such a way that it was as if she hadn’t considered them before they left her lips, a dangerous practice for sure, but one that had, fortunately, worked out safely here. I thought again of Adam and exactly how dangerous it was to speak without thinking. He wasn’t the only one with cause to regret.

“Me neither,” I whisper, drawing my knees to my chest and resting my arms across them. With a sigh, I lay my chin on them, peering ahead of me into the horizon where the sun was sinking lower. The chimes of the crickets’ song rose up out of the unkempt grass, and I briefly shut my eyes to let their symphony consume me. A few minutes later I came out of it, abruptly straightening and reaching up for that first bough in the same motion. For the first time in years, I haul myself up into the tree, feeling Collin’s questioning gaze on me as I shakily stand upright on the low-hanging branch, near the trunk for stability.

“Be careful up there,” she calls from the security of solid ground. For a moment, I want to rejoin her down there, but I refuse to be discouraged.

“I will,” I reply to reassure her as I turn my eyes to the branch above me. Even now, many years later, I still have to stand on my toes to close my stubby fingers around it. With great effort, I gripped the bough tight and lifted myself up, swinging my leg up and over, finding myself eight feet off the ground, hugging the trunk for support.

“Okay, I think that’s high enough,” Collin’s voice drifted up to me, sounding ever so slightly tinged with worry, which was unusual for her. As much as I wanted to comfort her by coming back down, something was inviting me further upwards.

There was only one more thin branch above me. It looked strong, but would it support me? Biting my lip to fight off my nerves, I cautiously rose again to stand, this limb much shakier than the lowest one, and began to work my way onto the final bough. Collin let out a shout of alarm when the wood made a sharp cracking noise, but then the sound disappeared, the danger passing, and I kept moving, my eyes narrowed and my knuckles white with determination.

Finally, I arrived, the branch creaking threateningly as I clung to the trunk, trusting it to hold me while I poked my head up and out over the leaves. The air felt fresher up here, or maybe that was just my imagination, and I turned my gaze skyward to see the clouds. The blue was fading to pinks and purples and oranges as a handful of tiny white lights began to appear. I turned to the sun, which was cut in half at the line where the Earth met the Heavens. I was witnessing that fantastical moment just before dusk where someone exceptionally observant might steal a glimpse from this world into the next.

Then, that moment dissipated as the light disappeared, plunging our world into night. The crickets grew louder, and I closed my eyes one last time, breathing in the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle that floated up to me from the ground. A feeling of satisfaction flooded me, starting in my chest and flowing through my body to my fingertips. It felt like a resolution. Like closure. Like… growing up. I decided to come back down. I wanted to leave this place and my memories here intact. We all have things we regret. I wasn’t going to let my Talking Tree become one of them.