Eli and Grandma: The Tree Knows

One morning, Eli sat beneath the old oak tree in the backyard, his chin resting on his knees, eyes watching leaves tumble gently to the ground. A breeze danced around him, stirring the branches above into a quiet conversation.

Grandma joined him without a word, her movements slow and steady, the way the seasons shift. She sat down beside him on a patch of warm earth, her skirt folding like soft petals.

“You’re thinking deep again,” she said, not as a question but as a knowing.

Eli nodded. “I don’t understand why some people come into your life, and then they’re just… gone. Like they were never really here.”

Grandma smiled gently, her eyes drifting up to the oak’s canopy. “You see this tree, Eli? It’s older than both of us put together. And it’s wise. It knows about people too.”

He looked up at the tree, brow furrowed. “The tree knows about people?”

“Oh yes,” she said, resting her hand on its rough trunk. “There are three kinds of people, Eli. Just like there are three parts to this tree.”

He listened closely, as he always did when Grandma began one of her stories that didn’t feel like a story until much later.

---

“There are Leaf People,” she said, brushing her fingers across a branch. “They come and go with the wind. They bring color and motion, but when the weather changes, they fall away. You can’t lean on them. And that’s okay—they were never meant to stay.”

Eli nodded slowly, remembering the kids who used to ride bikes with him last summer but stopped answering his texts by fall.

---

“Then there are Branch People,” she continued. “They seem strong, and they hold you for a while. But when the weight gets heavy, or storms roll in, they might crack. They didn’t mean to, but they weren’t made to carry everything.”

Eli thought about his neighbor Jake, who was his best friend until his dad lost his job and moved them away.

---

“But then…” Grandma placed her palm over her heart, “there are the Root People. You don’t always see them. They don’t shout or show off. But they’re the ones holding you up, feeding you strength from below. They stay when everything else falls. They love you quiet and steady.”

Eli felt the warmth of her words settle deep inside him, like a small light flickering on.

“So how do you know who’s who?” he asked.

---

“You don’t always know right away,” she said, smoothing a curl from his forehead. “Time will show you. Seasons reveal what’s real.”

He looked at her hand, weathered and warm, the one that had tied his shoes, held his fevered head, and wiped his tears. He smiled.

“You’re a root person,” he whispered.

Grandma’s eyes shimmered. “And so are you, my boy. You just don’t know how deep you go yet.”

The wind picked up again, carrying a single golden leaf past Eli’s shoulder. He watched it drift, no longer bitter, just aware.

And as Eli walked away, the old oak tree whispered, its leaves swaying in silent applause, its roots humming the truth beneath their feet.