Trees die standing

1

I felt it when she first took me to the forest: she belonged here. Alma adored the multi-stemmed alders growing by the green water, the ivy strangling gnarled oaks, the rotten smell of decayed wood, and the compelling silence that hung like mist between the trunks.

            “I love being here,” she said, that first time, when we explored every detail of each other’s bodies like a complex map of a medieval city. “But I also feel that it’s best not to stay here for too long.”  

             She was right. Every twig that cracked beneath our feet, every plant we trampled, every gulp of oxygen-rich forest air we breathed, felt like a dishonor to this place, which was so much older than us.

2

On a drizzly September afternoon, we looked at an old beech tree. Only a few branches still bore leaves. The others pointed to the sky like a witch’s fingers, bony and thin.

             “That one doesn’t have long to live,” I said.  

            Alma’s chestnut eyes penetrated mine. Then she turned away and tenderly placed her hand on the grey trunk. “I think he will be around for a while longer. Trees die standing up.”

             I looked from her to the tree, how they stood side by side, motionless. For a moment they seemed no more than shadows in this green shadowy realm. Then a smile broke out on Alma’s handsome face. “Why are you always so serious? Smile!”  

            I giggled like a girl under her tickling fingers. Among the tree crowns, a crow croaked a warning, which we ignored.

3

In all the months we wandered through this forest, we never came across another living soul. The forest bordered two residential areas, where a lot of children and teenagers lived, but we saw no signs of human presence: no beer cans, no dog turds, no poorly built camps, or rickety treehouses. The trails were overgrown. The plants we flattened during our explorations almost immediately raised themselves again, their leaves looking proudly at the sky.

             “My mother is worried,” Alma said one day. “She thinks I spend too much time in the forest, but there’s something she doesn’t understand: the forest is in me.”  

            It was the penultimate time I saw her.

            The last time was a week later when I frantically wandered through the woods after spending an entire morning talking to the police. The conversations with the two officers and Alma’s mother played over and over in my head. The questions, some of which I couldn’t and some of which I didn’t want to answer. The accusatory tone. The disbelief.

            It was the first time I was here alone. The forest felt even more menacing without her here. I walked alongside the stream, meandering like a snake. Each time I looked over my shoulder, the trees seemed to have moved a little closer. I forced my attention to the path in front of me, avoiding stones and tree roots.

I stopped at the massive tree where Alma always took me. An elm, she told me months ago. A rare survivor of Dutch elm disease, which caused massive deaths amongst elms in the Low Countries in the twentieth century.

A familiar scent penetrated my nose – old soil and humus, moist and heavy. But there was something else, something familiar that I couldn’t place right away. I stepped carefully over a large, exposed root – the toes of the tree, as Alma called them – to get to the trunk. Hesitantly, I placed my hand on the scaly bark, as I had seen her do so many times. The rough wood felt like sandpaper. Startled by creaking branches behind me, I turned around. And then I saw it.

  A young tree, under the crown of the old elm, about 5.5 feet tall. I knew with absolute certainty that this tree had not been there the week before. It was an elm, by the looks of it, with fresh, green leaves. Without thinking, I stroked the smooth trunk. It felt surprisingly warm. I laid my head against the wood and could swear I felt my ear vibrate to the rhythm of a heartbeat.

             Then something rustled in the thicket. I turned, but saw only branches and leaves.

            The trunk under my hand cooled down, the heartbeat slowed. The wind picked up, unexpected but powerful. A crow’s warning echoed among the treetops. This time I did listen.

(c) 2025, Leen Raats as first published by INTERWEAVED Magazine.