My Life In Word

The Forest and I

The forest and I know each other very well. It has learned the sound of my footsteps and when to go quiet for me. I have learned how its light changes before rain, how the air thickens when it wants to speak. We recognize each other without names.

I have given it my secrets in pieces—breath, tears, the steady ache of waiting—and it has kept them without asking for more. In return, it has shown me how to stand still without disappearing, how to lose what hurts and still remain rooted. When I am heavy with thought, it carries the weight in its shadows. When I am hollow, it fills me with birdsong and the slow patience of trees.

The forest does not rush me. It knows that some truths take seasons to say. When I leave, it does not follow, but it remembers. And when I return, it opens itself again, as if I have never been gone.

Simona A. Brinson

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