I Speak for the Trees
My favorite tree ever was a giant oak, over 100 feet tall with a girth so large, three adults had trouble getting their arms around it. The oak and I grew up in a backyard in South Jersey. There’s a home video of me, only a few months old, wrapped up against the cool of a crisp fall day, and lying on a blanket beneath the oak, engaged in conversation, some secret language only we two knew. I think the oak imprinted my soul that day which is probably why I still talk to trees, if only in my head. For years I climbed it, or tried to, hid behind it, told stories beneath it. I noted its battle scars, one inflicted by my father who had tried to cut it down because he feared its size and proximity to the bedroom. He succeeded only in leaving a scar. In exchange for its life, the oak didn’t fall on the roof.