Whispers from my Brother

. . . and the tree spoke to me, somewhat unintelligibly, in my brother’s voice, as I wandered past.
His voice was clear, distinctly recognizable, and just over my shoulder . . . so close. I froze and whirled around, expecting him to be there. In my rational mind, I knew that couldn’t be, as he was gone. I turned and cocked my head to the side, leaning closer to listen for the words I thought I had heard whispered.

Wind rushed through the clusters of branches and leaves above . . . allowing a previously unrevealed energy . . . an alluring, hollow presence, to escape. Soft wisps of unintelligible sounds, barely above silence, streamed out . . . sounds of a weary soul, stirring, as if from a deep slumber, to speak concealed secrets to my ears . . . ancient secrets of Earth and Wind, protected and hushed for Millennia.

This same presence had wailed untamed across the surface of a young, cooling world, witness to all manner of life, death, and rebirth in the great elapse of time since. I sensed the elusive whispers were painfully important, and I concentrated more intensely, closing my eyes . . . trying to make sense of the faint sound ripplings . . . to find the barely recognizable words loosely threaded within.

As I did, the clear black shroud of the night, pinpricked overhead with winking stars, closed in around me like a thick blanket, blocking out the world . . . its noises . . . the cold . . . warmly embracing me, pulling me close like a sagacious elder about to impart the gift of acquired wisdom.

This tree that I pass by, quite unaffected, at least twice daily had chosen this moment to reach out and intrigue me . . . entwine me . . . entrust me.

Although as I listened, I realized it was not the tree speaking. It was merely a tool, a channel employed by the wind, to be the vibration of its voice, carried on such gentle breezes passing through . . .

Was it the faint whispers of my brother, who had passed on?

I stood still, for nearly forty-five minutes, listening as the cool wind blew across the exposed skin of my face. I tried desperately to understand a murmur, a phrase . . . something . . . anything. Then, the wind relaxed, and as quickly as the presence had summoned, it departed. 

The branches whispered no more.

The tree fell silent . . . its hold on me was broken. The light wind blew cold, but didn’t speak.

Perhaps one day, when I am more prepared to listen, and open to its messages, the elusive winds and tree will once again allow my brother to speak to me.