“Things aren’t always what they seem.” Stephen smiled sympathetically. “Come on. Let’s go check out that shed.”
I watched the two of them head toward Samar’s backyard. They were talking. Laughing. Becoming friends, perhaps.
Maybe I hadn’t been so foolish, after all.
45
Trees don’t sleep, not like people do, or animals.
But we do rest.
Unfortunately, that night rest eluded me.
I was filled with questions about the coming day, of course.
But most of all, I didn’t want to miss a moment of what little life I had left.
I wanted to drink in the stars.
I wanted to feel the fuzzy wings of the owlets.
I wanted to stretch my roots just a tiny bit farther before the night was through.
I wanted to indulge in some quiet contemplation about life and love and what it all meant.
I wanted to philosophize.
“I’ve been thinking,” I said to Bongo. “There’s no point in my worrying about tomorrow. It will come soon enough.”
“Red,” Bongo said.
“Too much Wise Old Tree?”
Bongo paused. She looked at me for a long time.
“Never,” she said. “Never, ever too much Wise Old Tree.”
Bongo settled onto Home Plate. The world was quiet and calm.
“Want to hear a tree joke?” I asked.
“Is it funny?”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“Then probably no.”
“What’s a tree’s least favorite month?”
“I dunno. What month?”
“Sep-timber.” I paused. “Because, you see—”
“Red,” Bongo interrupted. “As always, no need to explain.”
We didn’t speak much after that. Turned out I didn’t need to talk about life and love and what it all meant.
It was enough to watch the sky freckled with stars, to smell the sweet wet earth, to listen to the beating hearts of the little ones I could keep safe, at least for one more night.
46
Saturday morning dawned clean and cool. Even before the sun made itself known, the animals and owls departed the safety of my limbs.
Each family had found a new home, all in nearby trees on the same block. The skunks were going to remain under their porch. It made me happy to know that everyone would be staying in the neighborhood.
One by one, they nuzzled me, whispering their good-byes. The babies sniffled, especially Harold and RosePetal and Flashlight. The parents tried to put on brave faces, but their trembling voices gave them away.
It was awful. But I was glad to get it over with.
I’ve always hated good-byes.
Bongo, for her part, insisted on staying with me to the bitter end.
I knew better than to argue with her.
By six in the morning, Stephen and Samar were sitting together on Samar’s porch.
By seven, Sandy and Max had arrived. They parked across the street and sat in their cruiser, sipping coffee and eating doughnuts.
By eight, three local reporters had arrived, armed with microphones and fancy equipment. They took video of the word “LEAVE.” They talked about its meaning, about how it had changed the feel of a neighborhood.
They also talked about me, the doomed wishtree.
I didn’t like the word “doomed.”
But I had to admit it was accurate reporting.
Francesca came at eight thirty, carrying a cup of tea and dragging a small wooden ladder, the one she put out every year for the wishmakers. She went back home and promptly returned with Lewis and Clark on their kitty leashes.
They were not cooperative.
And then the wishes began.
A toddler on her dad’s shoulders, reaching high.
An old woman, aided by two young girls.
Neighbor after neighbor, many of whom I’d seen pass by over the years.
Wish after wish after wish.
Some on scraps of colorful fabric.
Many on paper, tied with a ribbon or a string.
A few socks.
Two t-shirts.
And one pair of underwear.
At first, people came in small groups, or one by one. But then something changed. The trickle of people became a deluge.
Many of them were kids from the elementary school. But there were parents and teachers, too.
A dozen kids. Fifty. A hundred and more.
Every person seemed to be carrying an index card. Each card had a hole punched in it, with a piece of string looped through the hole.
Stephen high-fived many of them. Hugged his principal. Waved to his teacher.
Samar just sat on the steps with her parents, a quizzical expression on her face.
One by one, the children tied their wishes to me. The principal and assistant principal and janitor and teachers all helped.
My boughs had never been more laden.
My heart had never been more hopeful.
Because as each child, as each neighbor, as each stranger, placed a wish upon me, they looked at Samar and her parents and said the same thing: “STAY.”
47
Within an hour, I was covered with the word “STAY.” Extra wishes lay on the ground beneath me, piled like blossoms. Wishes made their way onto the porches, the railings, the sidewalk.
After two hundred and sixteen rings, I thought I’d seen it all.
Turns out, you’re never too old to be surprised.
Soon it became clear that the “STAY” wishes had been Stephen’s idea. With the help of his teacher, Stephen’s whole class had secretly worked much of the previous school day making the index cards. Word spread quickly about the project. Before long, the whole school had joined in.
“So this was your idea?” Samar asked Stephen.
“I had a lot of help,” he said. “It’s a miracle we kept it a secret from you.”
Samar looked over at her parents. “I don’t know if this will change anything,” she said.
Stephen looked over at his parents. “Me either.”
“Thank you, though,” Samar said. “For trying.”
Stephen started to reply, but just then, the Timber Terminators truck pulled up.
The end of my story was coming.
Well, it had been a beautiful story. How lucky was I to have seen a day like today?
But Stephen and Samar weren’t giving up so easily. They ran straight to Francesca, who was busy untangling the kittens wound around her right leg.
“Please,” Samar begged, “you can see how much people love the wishtree. Please don’t cut it down.”
“Child,” Francesca said firmly, “it’s time.”
Stephen pulled something from his jacket pocket. It was a small leather-bound journal.
“So you found it,” said Francesca. “In the shed?”
“Yep,” said Stephen, handing the worn diary to her.
“It’s a little damp,” said Francesca.
Samar pressed the key, its long ribbon dangling, into Francesca’s palm. “You should read it.”
“Maybe someday.”
“How about now?” Stephen urged.
Francesca sighed. “You children need a hobby, you know that?”
She put the key in the silver lock, and the journal clicked open. The pages were yellow, the ink faded. “Let me guess. It’s about a tree that can talk.”
“Actually, it’s about this neighborhood,” Stephen said. “It’s about us.”
“Please?” Samar said.
“Dear, it won’t change anything,” Francesca said.
“Please,” Stephen said.