I Hope They Told You

I hope the trees are shaking hands with cigars in mouth, taking bets on how long we’re apart.

The same ones who danced along with the vibrations of your voice

Before you hit puberty,

As we squealed, flying fearlessly with our wands and spells

Up to the canopies of the tallest of trees.

Not the same trees who stationed themselves in your backyard,

who peered at us through the window as we flung our small bodies back up the stairs

as a desperate attempt to save ourselves from our mothers’ beckons.

I didn’t want to leave.

I wonder if those trees talked to the trees who waved to us from the shoreline, where we caused such a ruckus on that boat that I’d assume we made some grayed ladies huff and glare at our mothers.

Maybe they would even reminisce on the time where you were so scared I would get hurt if my small hand would dare touch such a loathsome creature.

I told you not to worry, for it was just a deer, but I mean, I get it.

You didn’t want me to leave.

I hope the trees remember the times where we would spend laughing,

clenching our ribs until the stars would come out to share a chuckle too.

They’d hold their branches to their ears, whispering that they couldn’t believe we are old enough to drive now.

In the shadows, they’d watch us take walks along the dark beach, where you would listen to words I swore I would never tell a single soul

and the only judgment came from the ticking of the clock.

We would ignore the ticks.

We didn’t want to leave.

You wanted more. You worried about the ticks

But I wish you knew that was already more.

We had time

and you should’ve known there was enough.

I hope the trees didn’t see you cry because I wasn’t ready to be anything more.

For I was only a drive where we’d scream songs at the top of our lungs all the way to Seattle,

or I was only a phone call to make every night

or the first ear that would listen when you had good news to share.

So, I hope the trees told you how much I cried myself to sleep and how I didn’t eat for weeks.​​

They’d tell you that every time I saw your car, my heart stopped for a moment

and when I heard the songs we sang, I felt sick.

But, they should also tell you that you still tell me jokes in my dreams

and how I still write letters to you which I’ll never send

because hopefully, we’ll read them together someday over coffee,

or tea because I know you don’t like coffee.

The trees will watch us once again, sighing with relief, holding drinks of their own.

They’ll catch up, telling each other the stories they missed while we were away.

They didn’t want us to leave.

You didn’t want to leave.

I didn’t want to leave.