Some nights I lay silently on the grass and listen to the trees argue. Most quarrels are quite entertaining to eavesdrop on. Some are tiring, pointless, and not worth listening to. Today, when I lay down on my spot by the lake, my name is tossed into their conversation.

“It looks like Lillian has returned.” An oak tree spoke.

“Who?” The groggy timbre of the weeping willow answered.

“Lillian! The girl who always rests by the riverbank. It’s been a while since we last saw her. I wonder how she’s doing?”

I turned around with interest piqued. How could a tree know my name? Did the wind carry it to them?

“Don’t you watch her every now and then? While she’s at home?”

“Yes, but it hurts to know she cannot understand me.”

“She’s a human! She wouldn’t care about us even if she could understand every word we were saying!”

“You don’t have to be so negative!”

“I’m not negative! I’m realistic!”

“Would you two shut it!” I finally interjected. “I’m trying to relax!”

All sounds of nature cut to silence. Animals running about stop to look in my direction. I am given undivided attention. The weight of these eyes makes draws fear in my stomach.

“Sorry, that was quite rude of me.”

“So you can hear us?” The oak tree asked behind me. His branches extended with interest.

“Yes, I can.”

“This discovery is…relieving.”

“It is?” I tilted my head in confusion.

“Yes, of course. It gets lonely here. Especially when you have live the rest of your existence rooted into the ground next to a particularly annoying weeping willow!”

“Hey!” The willow tree rustled in offense.

The oak tree ignored him. “But, now that you can understand our language, maybe you should come by the river more often. There are many things I and many other trees around you want to know about humans.”

The willow tree made another comment. “I don’t understand him either, but do whatever you want. Just don’t wake me up from my naps!”

“How am I supposed to know you’re napping when you don’t have a face?” I questioned with a smirk.

“Birds don’t land on his branches when he’s asleep,” The oak tree responded. “But nevertheless, please visit more often.”

“Uh…okay. Sure, I’ll do that.” I am tentative in my response. Before I made myself known to understand these trees, my initial thought was that everyone could hear them speak. I would tell my friends the most recent things they’ve said, and they’d listen intently, engrossed in my story. Maybe they were just pretending to care so they can resume their game of tag.

That morning, when I left, I thought about what I should bring to them the next day. A jump rope? A baseball bat?

I used the many hours of my day to contemplate. What is the best thing that would tell the trees about what humans were like?

In the night, I had come to a conclusion.

The next morning, I brought with me a thin sheet of paper.