Molly—The Voice of the Trees

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Writer 1

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The trees were singing. That’s what my father used to say. Of course he failed to tell me that it was actually just the birds gathered on the branches tweeting the tune. So far a long time—possibly longer than I’d like to admit—I thought the songs came from the trees themselves. These ancient and majestic beings, forever rooted to the very spot where they were born, whistling out the melodies of days gone by.

Some say the trees were once our ancestors, who, buried in the ground, felt the need to check on us and protect us. Of course, it took years for their spirits to grow up tall enough to watch over top of buildings, and by that time, we had already begun the road to destruction. Now the trees grow to clean the air around them, offering sanctuaries to those who seek peace and fresh air. One can only stand near the buildings for so long without sucking in the poison. 

I often wonder how our ancestors knew to grow. Are we that far gone that, from six feet in the ground, their lifeless bodies—but lively souls—can sense we’re suffering? The trees won’t tell me, I’ve tried to ask. They look at me from up there and ask me back, why I think of such things in the presence of something so great. And I have to agree.

The trees are always right, that’s what my mother used to say, because when I was a small child I believed the trees would hum me majestic melodies. It was only when she was gone that I found she was the majestic one, and I will forever remember her hum.