decide I have to think about something else.
I look straight ahead at the inside wall of the tree trunk. The burnt pattern on the inside looks like thousands of tiny puzzle pieces all connected. It looks like if you pushed on it, all the pieces would crumble and the trunk would fall apart and the whole tree would fall.
That's how I feel—like I'm fragmentizing—like all the pieces of me are coming apart.
"That was an awfully big sigh."
I jump and then feel my face get hot.
"Oops, are you okay? I didn't mean to startle you."
I shrug my shoulders. I don't know if I'm okay. She's so nice that it hurts. But how can someone being nice hurt? She's patient too. She's been working on just one knot for a long time. She combs it a little, then stops, then pulls it apart with her fingers, then combs it again.
"Am I hurting you? You'll let me know if I'm hurting you, right?"
I just keep nodding my head up and down or side to side when she asks her questions.
Sierra. I like her name. I wonder if she's named after the mountains called the Sierras? I learned about those in school. They're in Northern California.
Sierra . . . I see her name in my mind written in cursive. A large sweeping S, a small i with a tiny circle for a dot, then a loopy e, and a hump for the r, then another one, and a round a with a little tail at the end.
I'll remember her name for a long time. Maybe forever.
I feel dumb not telling her my name or answering her questions. For a minute I thought she was going to leave when I wouldn't talk to her. I didn't want her to leave, but then I remembered what Emily Post wrote about the "personality of a handshake" and the "bow of a woman of charm." I guess those are considered nonverbal greetings. They must have worked because she stayed.
I think of what he calls me: "You stupid mute!" I looked up mute in the dictionary once. It said someone who's mute is "dumb, silent, not speaking, unable to speak; dumb." It used the word dumb twice in the definition. So I guess he's at least right about something.
As she combs, I consider— consider is just another way of saying think —all the things I'd tell her if I could. First, I'd say thank you. Grammy always said that you have to be polite to people—it's respectful. She probably learned that from reading Etiquette. So I'd say Thank you for the granola bar and the apple. I'd also tell her that I like her dog. He's funny, and soft, and he didn't scare me.
I've always wanted a dog.
After I was polite, I'd ask her questions. That's how you get to know people, you ask them things. Just like she was asking me—what's your name, where do you live—those kinds of things.
What I really want to ask her is why she was crying the other day. But if I asked her that, maybe she'd think I was spying on her. I guess I was, but I didn't mean to. Anyway, I just want to know why. Maybe I could help her feel better about whatever made her cry.
I know how it feels to cry when you're all by yourself and there's no one to give you a hug.
I feel the comb slide through my hair—down one side, down the back, and then down the other side. It slips through easily. I reach my hand to my hair—it's smooth.
"Here." Sierra hands me the comb. "Want to comb it yourself?"
I take the comb and run it through my hair. No tangles. None. I look over my shoulder at Sierra and smile. If only I could thank her. As I hand the comb back to her, I realize it's a little darker inside the tree now. I look up to the opening and see that the sun is no longer shining in through the hole. I feel my stomach knot. What time is it? How long have I been here?
I stand, turn, and look down at Sierra. I have to go. I have to go now.
I look at the opening of the tree and back at Sierra. I start to step around her but she reaches out and puts her hand on my leg.
"Do you . . . Do you need to go?"
She can tell. She knows. I nod and look again at the opening in the tree.
Sierra stands, brushes dirt off the back of
I look straight ahead at the inside wall of the tree trunk. The burnt pattern on the inside looks like thousands of tiny puzzle pieces all connected. It looks like if you pushed on it, all the pieces would crumble and the trunk would fall apart and the whole tree would fall.
That's how I feel—like I'm fragmentizing—like all the pieces of me are coming apart.
"That was an awfully big sigh."
I jump and then feel my face get hot.
"Oops, are you okay? I didn't mean to startle you."
I shrug my shoulders. I don't know if I'm okay. She's so nice that it hurts. But how can someone being nice hurt? She's patient too. She's been working on just one knot for a long time. She combs it a little, then stops, then pulls it apart with her fingers, then combs it again.
"Am I hurting you? You'll let me know if I'm hurting you, right?"
I just keep nodding my head up and down or side to side when she asks her questions.
Sierra. I like her name. I wonder if she's named after the mountains called the Sierras? I learned about those in school. They're in Northern California.
Sierra . . . I see her name in my mind written in cursive. A large sweeping S, a small i with a tiny circle for a dot, then a loopy e, and a hump for the r, then another one, and a round a with a little tail at the end.
I'll remember her name for a long time. Maybe forever.
I feel dumb not telling her my name or answering her questions. For a minute I thought she was going to leave when I wouldn't talk to her. I didn't want her to leave, but then I remembered what Emily Post wrote about the "personality of a handshake" and the "bow of a woman of charm." I guess those are considered nonverbal greetings. They must have worked because she stayed.
I think of what he calls me: "You stupid mute!" I looked up mute in the dictionary once. It said someone who's mute is "dumb, silent, not speaking, unable to speak; dumb." It used the word dumb twice in the definition. So I guess he's at least right about something.
As she combs, I consider— consider is just another way of saying think —all the things I'd tell her if I could. First, I'd say thank you. Grammy always said that you have to be polite to people—it's respectful. She probably learned that from reading Etiquette. So I'd say Thank you for the granola bar and the apple. I'd also tell her that I like her dog. He's funny, and soft, and he didn't scare me.
I've always wanted a dog.
After I was polite, I'd ask her questions. That's how you get to know people, you ask them things. Just like she was asking me—what's your name, where do you live—those kinds of things.
What I really want to ask her is why she was crying the other day. But if I asked her that, maybe she'd think I was spying on her. I guess I was, but I didn't mean to. Anyway, I just want to know why. Maybe I could help her feel better about whatever made her cry.
I know how it feels to cry when you're all by yourself and there's no one to give you a hug.
I feel the comb slide through my hair—down one side, down the back, and then down the other side. It slips through easily. I reach my hand to my hair—it's smooth.
"Here." Sierra hands me the comb. "Want to comb it yourself?"
I take the comb and run it through my hair. No tangles. None. I look over my shoulder at Sierra and smile. If only I could thank her. As I hand the comb back to her, I realize it's a little darker inside the tree now. I look up to the opening and see that the sun is no longer shining in through the hole. I feel my stomach knot. What time is it? How long have I been here?
I stand, turn, and look down at Sierra. I have to go. I have to go now.
I look at the opening of the tree and back at Sierra. I start to step around her but she reaches out and puts her hand on my leg.
"Do you . . . Do you need to go?"
She can tell. She knows. I nod and look again at the opening in the tree.
Sierra stands, brushes dirt off the back of
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