I can remember the day we met like it was yesterday. It was the summer of 1994 and I was staying with my Grandpa Jack on his farm. The farm was a flat and spacious prairie-like property backed by a dense forest. There was an assortment of farm animals, fruit trees, and the largest garden I had ever seen. I do not know how my grandpa managed to maintain all of it, especially since my grandma passed away. My mom always said that Grandpa Jack was such an oddball who seemed to care more about his property than anything else. I never really minded his obsession with the farm because I, too, was a lover of nature and enjoyed my time outdoors. I spent my summer mornings helping him tend to the animals and the garden, but like clockwork each afternoon I would wander towards the back of his property to explore the woods. I always felt at home in the forest and each day I would pick a new section to discover. It was the third week in July when I first spotted a peculiar carving on a tree. It was a shape I had never seen before but it was very beautiful. The image had a geometric look to it; it was symmetrical and in a certain way resembled a flower. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was not just a carving but, in fact, a small door. I curiously opened the door to find a small, rectangular, hollowed-out section of the tree’s trunk. Inside there was a worn bundle of rolled up papers bound by a small piece of what looked like green string. I studied it for a few moments before picking up the bundle and untying the string. To my surprise, all of the papers were blank except for one which, in a light green ink, read,
Hello. It is nice to meet you. Tell me about yourself.
I stood there filled with confusion and fascination. I looked around to see if anybody was nearby because a part of me felt like someone was watching me. I decided to respond to the message so I grabbed a pencil from my bag and scribbled out the reply.
My name is Matilda and I am 10 years old. I like playing outside in the forest. What is your name?
I felt a little silly writing back at all, as the paper was so aged that the person who originally wrote the message could have been long gone. I carefully re-rolled and tied the bundle and returned it to the compartment chiseled inside of the tree’s trunk and closed the door. I then continued my adventure into the forest.
The next morning I woke up with a mellow excitement wondering if the unknown writer found my response to their short letter. I completed my rounds throughout the farm hastily and set out to find the unique doorway once again. I arrived at the door nervously as it had not really seemed like anyone had been there. I opened the door and carefully unraveled the bundle again. I searched through the papers and there it was – a response! In the same delicate green ink as the original message, it said,
Thank you for your introduction, Matilda. People call me many things, so name me however you would like. I, too, love being in the forest. How did you come to find this bundle?
I read the message multiple times as I stood beside the opened door gripping the tattered bundle. Why on earth does this person not have a name? I could not help but ponder on the possibilities. I thought perhaps they just did not like their name but they could have simply chosen a new one. Why tell me to name them myself? Filled with questions I snatched the pencil from my bag and began to respond again.
I am visiting for the summer with my Grandpa Jack on his farm. I was exploring these woods when the symbol carved in this door caught my eye and I found your note. Why do you not have a name? I do not understand.
I returned the bundle and closed the door before turning to look around. There were no signs of anyone despite my feeling that someone was watching me still. I took off into the woods to continue my daily adventure.
That evening, during dinner, I asked my Grandpa Jack if he had ever explored the woods at the back of his property. He said that as a boy, he played in the woods just as I do now, but that he has not been back there for many years. He had a look of interest on his face as he answered the question, almost as if he knew that I was hiding something. Was Grandpa Jack responding to my letters? I did not think he would lie about not going into the woods. I decided to test the theory that it was him all along. After my Grandpa Jack went off to bed, I put a small piece of tape on his door that would let me know if he left his room during the night. I fell asleep with a buoyant heart wishing that the tape would remain in place when I awoke.
The next day I was stunned to find that the tape was exactly as I had left it. I suppose a part of me thought that he was the only one it could have been. I discarded the tape and began my morning chores with gusto while longing to run into the woods to recover the bundle. I finally finished my routine by bringing the fresh eggs into the kitchen before heading into the woods. I quickly slid my mangled hair behind my ear and threw open the door. I unraveled the papers and found a response – again! It read,
Thank you for sharing, Matilda. I am a friend of your grandfather. You can call me Rosette, as he once did.
I could not believe what I was reading. A friend of my grandfather – how was that possible? This time I shoved the bundle into my bag and ran back to the farm to find my grandpa. I can vividly remember seeing him calmly whispering to himself while picking aphids off of the plants in the garden as I sprinted towards him. “Grandpa, grandpa, you have to see these messages,” I yelled. I retrieved the bundle from my bag and unrolled it to show the papers to him. I rambled about how I had been writing with Rosette, who claimed to be his friend, and that I found the papers behind the door in the tree trunk. It was then that grandpa’s face changed into an unusual expression. At first, it was like he remembered that he accidentally left the stove on, but then it turned into a type of delight that I had only ever seen in the faces of my kid cousins on that one white Christmas morning. I had definitely never seen a look like that on an old person before, especially not on my Grandpa Jack. He stood up and clutched my hand and the bundle and started running towards the woods. I did not know he could even move that speedily. He ran through the trees with the vigor of a playful child and to my absolute bewilderment, headed directly towards the alluring door in the mysterious tree.
We sat beside the tree to catch our breath when he asked me for my pencil. Utterly befuddled, I handed it to him. He smiled at me and said, “these papers belong to Rosette and she was my best friend when I was your age. She can only communicate with those who are capable of reading her words. I will let her tell you her story.” He took the pencil and scribbled on one of the papers.
Oh Rosette, how much I have missed you! This is my granddaughter Matilda, and I believe she is ready to read your story.
He neatly rolled up the papers and placed them back into the tree and closed the door. He then knelt beside me and wrapped me in his arms. I had never experienced him being so affectionate before. He thanked me for reminding him of Rosette and said that it had been many years since he was able to write with her. Just as I was about to ask why they did not keep in touch, he stood up and removed the bundle from behind the door and started unraveling it. He handed it to me and asked me to tell him what it said. I looked at him perplexed before realizing there were two full pages of a response written in the same green ink as before. How did that happen? Those pages were both blank when he placed them inside just a few minutes ago. I slowly gathered the new message and began reading.
Matilda, please tell Jackie thank you for the message. I have missed him too. Today, I am Rosette and I am the tree that stands before you. Thousands of years ago, this Seed of Life was carved into my trunk. It gave me the ability to communicate with those who are pure enough to read my messages. Your grandfather was once able to read them just as you are now, but the challenges of life as a human causes the purity within to fade. The chlorophyll in my ink is invisible to those who are not of pure heart and intention, even if they once were.
I paused and looked at grandpa who gently shook his head no as if anticipating my question. The words I was reading right then were invisible to him. I continued reading aloud.
My ability to communicate has made me countless friends over many centuries and has helped intensify the connection between plants and the human spirit. In reality, we are all connected by roots that are invisible to most, much like my ink. I am very happy to be Jackie’s friend, just as I am happy to now be yours, Matilda.
I stared at the papers in disbelief as grandpa took my hand. “Thank you for reuniting me with my childhood companion. I am so happy to know that Rosette has such a special young lady to also call her friend,” he said quietly. We hugged and left a message thanking Rosette for her story before heading back to the farm.
In bed that night my mind was racing trying to make sense of everything that happened. I could barely believe that the tree was writing messages to me. I realized that it was Rosette that I could feel watching me each time I wrote a response. I spent the rest of that summer visiting and writing with her. She shared with me stories about her past friendships and little-known truths about the human spirit. Before then, I never would have guessed that the stereotype of being wise and old could apply to a tree. After that summer at my grandpa’s farm, I finally understood why my mom thought Grandpa Jack was such an oddball. He was connected to nature in a way that others could never understand. That was why he would never leave the farm. That was why he would whisper with his plants and animals as he tended to them. He knew they were much more than simple objects for human use even after he grew up and had mostly forgotten his time spent with Rosette. As I sit here writing this, my grandson is on his way to spend the summer on the farm that I inherited after my grandfather’s passing. I can only hope that perhaps he, like me and his great-great grandfather, is an oddball too.