Stories

The trees whisper to me

They tell me to listen to their stories

So I do

I hear the stories of the kids who carefully carved their names into her trunk and

How alone she feels when no one's around

She sobs the stories of mourning mothers and children whose loved ones died

And their lifeless bodies getting dug into the deep dark ground next door

Laughing children as they play their games near her towering figure

The sing-song of nursery rhymes hummed till the bell went to signal that the break was over

She talks about the untold secrets that were whispered to her that she kept secret

I hear the thanks of the hooded robins that sought shelter in her dense branches

I feel the seasons change throughout the tales of happiness and despair

The story I hear next is unexpected

It's a loud “BANG” It was a gunshot

But this story isn't hers she didn't hear the crying children as their home was destroyed

The story was told to her clear like a drum at midnight

Now she has suddenly replaced the story with a new one

One that's hers, one that's happy, one where the sun shines and laughter fills the air

She whispers to me one last time, in her language, the language of the trees

A goodbye