Wishtree(9)

Bongo bent forward, wings spread, in a sort of bow. It was, in crow circles, a sign of great affection.

I’d seen that key before. Bongo had “inherited” it from her mother. Crows live in extended families, and they pass information across generations. It didn’t surprise me that Bongo still had the key, or that she’d decided to give it to Samar.

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?”