Her name is Helena
If I heard correctly
Her name is Helena.
At least I think that’s what she said it was. But maybe I misheard.
She doesn’t mind my fingers running over her roughness. Or my arms when I wrap them around her trunk and hold on tight, my cheek resting on her heart.
I think she kinda likes it.
Her skin soothes me. Her bark — jaggy, craggy, scratchy — heavily layered overlapping tree shingles like a tiled roof. Bumpy, rugged, delightful to run my hands over.
This is how we talk. Our private form of Braille. Uneven enough to trust what I hear.
