I stare at her.
I feel words wanting to flow out of me.
My fist closes around the green stone in my pocket.
What do trees say? I ask.
She puts her hand on a redwood trunk.
I get closer,
and almost in a whisper,
People are young,
they don’t see what they should.
They only see what they want to see.
I don’t understand.
You know what I mean, Etan.
People should know that it’s okay if you don’t like to talk,
or go to school,
or anything.
That should be okay.
Trees understand this.
They can feel you, even when you’re quiet.
They are excellent listeners.
This makes sense to me.
Once, on a field trip to Golden Gate Park,
we learned about how plants
can sense vibrations.
I put my hand on the trunk of another tree
looking up up up into its high, green branches.
I whisper to it, tap on the trunk,
imagine it feeling my sound.
Listening.