How to Hold Time by Mayme Killeen

Close and intimate, my roots mingle with those of the pines. Nettles cushion the floor, opening the forest to an unshakable quiet. My leaves brush against my neighbors’ as we sing the song of seasons, harmonizing with each change, loss, and growth that kisses our branches.

Oh, to be a tree, a vessel for life’s small creatures who weather the storm as I weather the passage of time. Slow like honey, the forest transforms before me. I watch it grow big, bustling with squirrels stowing stolen nuts and caterpillars crawling to higher places. I watch it grow small as birds migrate south and leaves fall, merging with the soil below. Their time is short, and my time is long. These moments are fleeting. Only the rings of my trunk can truly hold time’s weight.

I no longer mind visitors, like you, who carve their names deep into my bark. Remember me, I think as sap seeps down, wedging itself under your fingernails. For this moment, we are one. You, in your mom’s gingham shirt and pants wearing thin, breathe in the crisp air of the evergreens. And I, with my gnarled trunk and sparse leaves, inhale, swelling to absorb the sanctity of your presence. Soon, you will leave. You will leave, and I will stay, this moment lost to the sweeping smell of pine. 

When they cut me down, leaving only a stump to mark my place, I hope you run your fingers across my rings. See them. Feel them. How long I must have lived for these rings to find their place, etched where only the bugs can reach. How long I must have watched the forest breathe and sigh in all its glory. With my rings, you will hold time. 

But, right now, you are here. So, breathe in the air. Press your palm against the grooves of my bark and remember. Remember its imprint running in tandem with the creases of your skin. 

Remember me, for I will remember you.