In the sweet calm, surrounded by everything I loved—moonlight, air, grass, animals, earth, people—I wondered, with a pang, how much longer I would be able to savor such moments.
I wondered, too, if I’d done enough for the world I loved. It was something I’d asked myself before. But impending death has a way of focusing your attention.
Sure, I’d provided plenty of shade. Made oceans of oxygen for people to breathe. Been a home to an endless parade of animals and insects.
I’d done my job. A tree is, after all, just a tree. Like I’d told Bongo: “We grow as we must grow, as our seeds decided long ago.”
And yet.
Two hundred and sixteen rings. Eight hundred and sixty-four seasons. And still something was missing.
My life had been so … safe.
Upstairs, a curtain in the green house moved. Behind it, Stephen was just visible, watching us.
I knew what he was thinking. One of the advantages of being a good listener is that you learn a great deal about how the world works.
In Stephen’s eyes, in the way he’d looked at Samar that afternoon, I saw something I’d seen many times before.
A wish.
20
After Samar left, I felt restless.
Restlessness is not a useful quality in a tree.
We move in tiny bits, cell by cell, roots inching farther, buds nudged into the sunlight. Or we move because someone transplants us to a new location.
When you’re a red oak, there’s no point in feeling fidgety.
Trees, as I said, are meant to listen, to observe, to endure. And yet, just once, before I said good-bye to the world, what would it be like to be something other than passive? To be an actor in the stories unfolding around me? Maybe even to make things a little bit better?
“Bongo,” I said softly. “Are you awake?”
“I am now,” she grumbled.
“I have a question.”
“I’ll get back to you first thing in the morning.”
“How does friendship happen?”
Bongo responded by snoring.
I could tell it was a fake snore. Her real snores are so loud they scare the baby opossums.
“I’m serious,” I said.
Bongo groaned. “I dunno. It just happens.”
“But how does it happen?”
“Friends have things in common,” Bongo said. “And there you go. Your answer in five words. See you in the a.m., pal.”
I thought about her reply. “But what do you and I really have in common, when you get right down to it?”
With a loud exhale, Bongo flew to the ground. “Okay. I’m thoroughly awake now, thank you very much. What’s this all about?”
“Just an idea.”
“Here’s an idea for you: Ideas are a bad idea,” said Bongo. “Especially if someone is in busybody mode. I’m lookin’ at you, Red.”
“Back to my question. Why are we friends?”
“Okay, fine. Let me think on it for a minute.”
Bongo walked in a slow circle around my trunk, considering.
I love the way birds move, so unlike trees. We bend with the wind. We’re graceful and unhurried. Birds, on the other hand, move in flits and twitches. Their heads whip from side to side, as if they’ve just heard astonishing news.
Bongo paused. “Well, to begin with, you’re my home. And I’m your tenant.”
“But that’s not really a reason for us to be friends. I’ve had residents I wasn’t particularly fond of.”
“That squirrel? What was his name? Squinch? The one with bad breath?”
“It’s not important.”
“Knew it was Squinch.”
“Bongo,” I said. “Please focus.”
Bongo gazed up at me. “We’re friends because we’re friends, Red. Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was small and sweet—not her usual get-to-the-point crow tone.
“You’re right,” I said. “But suppose two people needed to be friends. How would you make that happen?”
“Maybe … get them together, doing something. They yak, share a laugh. Voilà. Friendship. Am I right?”
“Hmm.”
“I don’t like it when you hmm. Hmm-ing leads to ideas.”
“You can go back to sleep, Bongo. Thanks for talking. You’re a good friend.”
“Likewise.” Bongo flew back up to her nest. “Hey, be sure to let me sleep in.”
“Bongo?”
“Now what?”
“One more thing. Why do you think people can be so cruel to each other?”
“It’s not like the rest of us are exactly angels. Last night I saw Agnes eat a whole lizard in one bite.”
Agnes, the barn owl who lived with her nestlings in my highest hollow, flapped her wings in annoyance. “Hey, a girl’s gotta eat. And you’re a fine one to talk, Bongo,” she said. “Is there anything crows won’t eat?”
“My point,” Bongo continued, “is that the world’s a tough place. Doesn’t matter if you’re a bunny or a lizard or a kid.”
With that, Bongo started snoring—for real this time—but I was still wide awake.
“Ma, what’s the horrible noise?” came the startled voice of a baby opossum.
“That’s just Bongo sleeping,” her mother replied.
Bongo had been right. I was hatching an idea.
She’d always said I was a busybody, not to mention an optimist.
An optimistic buttinsky.
Well, there were worse things.
Trees are the strong, silent type.
Unless we’re not.
21
“Bongo,” I said early that morning as the last stars faded like weary fireflies, “there’s something I need you to do.”
“Does it involve potato chips?” Bongo mumbled.
“No.”
“Then I’d rather sleep.”
“It’s about Samar.”
“You promised you’d let me sleep in.”
“I didn’t promise.”
“You implied.”
“I want to grant Samar’s wish.”
This roused Bongo. She fluttered down to her favorite branch, the one she’d nicknamed Home Plate. (Bongo likes to watch the kids play softball at the elementary school.) “Uh, Red, you don’t make wishes happen. You’re the place where wishes go. You’re like a … like a leafy garbage can. In a good way.”
“For two hundred and sixteen rings, I’ve sat on my roots and listened to people hope for things. And a lot of times, those wishes never happened, I’m guessing.”
Bongo tucked a feather into place. “Sometimes that’s for the best. Remember that kindergartner who wanted a bulldozer?”
“I’m passive. I just sit here watching the world.”
“You’re a tree, Red. That’s kind of the job description.”
“This is a good wish. And it’s a wish I can make happen.” I paused. “Well, we can make happen.”
“Yeah, I had a feeling that’s where this was going.” Bongo glided to the ground. “Look, I heard Samar’s wish. How exactly are you going to find her a friend?”
“You’ll see,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident than I felt.
“Red.” Bongo paced back and forth. With each step, her head bobbed forward. “We’ve got more serious issues, pal. Francesca’s talking about turning you into toothpicks. And your residents are frantic about where they’re going to move if that happens.” She came close and nudged me fondly. “Of course, they’re worried about you, too.”
“I know that.”
FreshBakedBread poked her head out from under the porch. It was barely dawn, and only the white stripe running the length of her face was clearly visible.