AND THE TREE WHISPERED
A husband, a skeptic, and a sycamore with opinions
Christina woke up later than usual. She shuffled to the kitchen and was surprised to see her husband, William, standing at the wide window, watching the backyard with a cup of coffee in his hand. She was about to ask why he was home when she remembered it was Saturday, and the kids were home, too.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and stood beside him.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
William kissed her cheek. “Nothing. I’m waiting for the tree whisperer.”
“The who?”
“The tree whisperer,” he repeated, still staring outside.
“What the hell is a tree whisperer?”
“Someone who specializes in trees.”
“You mean an arborist?”
“No, this guy is a tree whisperer. Like a horse whisperer. Or a dog whisperer. He understands trees.”
“So, like... the trees talk to him?”
William turned toward her with a sheepish, tired expression. “Stop.”
“I mean, what the hell is he…”
“Stop,” he repeated, placing his palm gently over her mouth. “You don’t have to turn this into a joke. He comes highly recommended. Iskender at the office says he’s fantastic. He took one look at Iskender’s backyard and knew exactly what to do with every tree.”
“You mean they all whispered to him?” Christina asked, trying not to laugh.
William shot her a look.
“William, there’s nothing wrong with our trees. It’s March. Look at them. They’re already greening.”
“Not the sycamore.”
“What’s wrong with the sycamore?”
“It’s not happy. I can tell from the trunk. And some of the branches.” He was about to elaborate but caught the smirk forming on her face and stopped.
“Why do they whisper, William? Can’t they just talk? Or sing every once in a while?”
William shook his head in slow motion.
Christina playfully mussed up the last of his thinning hair and ran upstairs to shower, just as the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” William called, hustling to the door like a man expecting divine intervention.
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After her shower, Christina stepped out onto the balcony, towel wrapped around her wet hair. The tree whisperer was in the front yard, standing with one hand on the sycamore's trunk and the other pressed to his chest. He looked like he was in prayer, or listening for a confession.
She blinked a few times, turned back inside, and dried her hair. When she came downstairs, the tree whisperer was gone. William was in the front yard, lighting a cigarette, looking smug.
“Well?” she asked.
“Good,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Very good.”
“How much did he charge?”
“Three hundred dollars,” William muttered.
Christina rested her palm against the sycamore’s bark, closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. “You know,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about it. I think he’s right. If you really concentrate, I’m sure they do communicate.”
William scoffed. “Yeah? What’s it whispering?”
She paused; eyes still closed. “The tree just whispered, ‘Your husband is an idiot.’”
♥️♥️😂😂
Mingling the life tragedy with the power of the absurd. Thanks a lot Vahé