and in her old-age I take care of her. It makes me think who’ll be there for me when I’m her age. Sitting in the grass under the maple tree, Pookie and I pondered our surroundings in silence. Lying flat on my back, I stared up into the branches of the young tree, watching it move in the light, steady breeze. Subtly, it gives me a nod. The sensation seeped into the back of my mind, a drop of water on a dry paper. It was shocking but at the same time inexplicably familiar. It seemed almost like an unspoken hello, an affirming sway of recognition. “Pookie,” I start without moving my eyes from the young maple’s glimmering leaves; “do you think this tree knows we’re here?” “Hmm…,” she mumbled. I peeled my eyes from the tree to look at her: she’s skinny, a figure of sticks and twigs like she’s always been, shin over shin, hugging her knees to her chest. Staring into the branches, searching for an answer, she took a long few moments to consider. “Maybe,” she says, decidedly. “But it might be a good thing to find out.” We exchanged glances, passing the invisible talking stick. “Yeah,” I said longingly as I looked back at the maple’s thin, tendrilous branches. I grinned as I considered the offshoots extending from the main trunk; stretching outward in search for light, the tree’s limbs swayed in the breeze with animation, leaves dancing in the wind, winking. A thought shot into my mind from the ether: they’re literally reaching out. It grinned back at me now. “I think it might just be.” -Quinn Lander
three
