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“Welcome,” the Officer says in a voice as clipped and sharp as his hair. He does not sound welcoming, and I realize that the similarities to Grandfather do not go far. I have to stop looking for Grandfather. He won’t materialize from the trees, no matter how much I wish it could happen.
“I’m your instructor. You wil address me as Sir. ”
Lon can’t stop himself. “Do we get to go on the Hil ?”
The Officer fixes him with a gaze and Lon wilts.
“No one,” the Officer says, “speaks without my permission. Is that understood?” We al nod.
“We’re not going to waste any time. Let’s get started. ”
He points behind him to one of the thickly forested Arboretum hil s. Not the Hil , not the big one, but one of the smal er foothil s that are usual y off-limits unless you’re an Arboretum employee. These smal hil s are not that high, but my mother tel s me that they are stil a good climb through underbrush and growth.
“Get to the top of it,” he says, turning on his heel. “I’l be waiting. ”
Is he serious? No tips? No training before we start?
The Officer disappears into the undergrowth.
Apparently he is serious. I feel a smal smile lifting the corners of my mouth, and I shake my head to get rid of it. I am the first to fol ow the Officer into the trees. They are thick summer green and when I push my way through them, they smel like Grandfather. Perhaps he is in the trees after al .
And I think, If I ever dared to open that paper, this would be the place.
I hear other people moving through the trees around me and behind me. The forest, even this type of semicultivated forest, is a noisy pla
ce, especial y with al of us tromping through it. Bushes smack, sticks crunch, and someone swears nearby. Probably Lon. I move faster. I have to fight against some of the bushes, but I make good progress.
My sorting mind wishes I could identify the birdcal s around me and name the plants and flowers I see. My mother likely knows most of them, but I won’t ever have that kind of specialized knowledge unless working in the Arboretum becomes my vocation.
The climb gets harder and steeper but not impossible. The little hil is stil part of the Arboretum proper, so it isn’t truly wild. My shoes become dirty, the soles covered in pine needles and leaves. I stop for a moment and look for a place to scrape off some of the mud so I can move faster.
But, here in the Arboretum, the fal en trees and branches are al removed immediately after they fal . I have to settle for scraping my feet, one at a time, along the bark-bumped side of a tree.
My feet feel lighter when I start walking again and I pick up speed. I see a smooth, round rock that looks like a polished egg, like the gift Bram gave to Grandfather. I leave it there, smal and brown in the grass, and I move even faster, pushing the branches out of my way and ignoring the scratches on my hands. Even when a pine branch snaps back and I feel the sharp slap of needles and sinewy branch on my face, I don’t stop.
I’m going to be the first one to the top of this hil and I’m glad. There is a lightness to the trees ahead of me, and I know it is because there is sky and sun behind them instead of more forest. I’m almost there. Look at me, Grandfather, I think to myself, but of course he can’t hear me.
Look at me.
I veer suddenly and duck into the bushes. I fight my way through until I crouch alone in the middle of a thick patch of tangled leaves where I hope I wil be wel concealed. Dark brown plainclothes make good camouflage.
My hands shake as I pul out the paper. Was this what I planned al along when I tucked the compact inside the pocket of my plainclothes this morning? Did I know somehow that I’d find the right moment here in the woods?
I don’t know where else to read it. If I read it at home someone might find me. The same is true of the air train and school and work. It’s not quiet in this forest, crowded with vegetation and thick, muggy morning air wet against my skin. Bugs hum and birds sing. My arm brushes against a leaf and a drop of dew fal s onto the paper with a sound like ripe fruit dropping to the ground.
What did Grandfather give me?
I hold the weight of this secret in my palm and then I open it.
I was right; the words are old. But even though I don’t recognize the type, I recognize the format.
Grandfather gave me poetry.
Of course. My great-grandmother. The Hundred Poems. I know without having to check on the school ports that this poem is not one of them. She took a great risk hiding this paper, and my grandfather and grandmother took a great risk keeping it. What poems could be worth losing everything for?
The very first line stops me in my tracks and brings tears to my eyes and I don’t know why except that this one line speaks to me as nothing else ever has.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
I read on, through words I do not understand and ones that I do.
I know why it spoke to Grandfather:
Do not go gentle into that good night,
