Free The Book of Trees by Leanne Lieberman

probably know about the trees. He would have some outside perspective. Yes, I could ask him.
    I headed out of the museum and marched in the direction of the hostel. Twice I walked down dead-end streets, until I asked for directions.
    In the lobby of the hostel, a large man with an untucked shirt talked on the phone behind a counter. A young woman in a gauzy sundress and several toe rings sat on a couch painting her toenails. A henna tattoo snaked around her biceps. She made me think of the bars I used to play at in Toronto.
    I paused to study a bulletin board. Bongo drums and a Serratus backpack were for sale. Peace Now was looking for volunteers to rebuild houses. Three American women wanted a non-smoking roommate. All were welcome to attend a Jewish meditation course in Sefat. Flyers advertised car rentals, a Chinese buffet and tours to the Golan, the Galilee and the Negev.
    Faintly, I could hear people singing and playing guitars.
    “Where’s the music coming from?” I asked the man behind the counter.
    He pointed toward a tiled staircase. “The roof.”
    The music, U2’s “One,” grew louder as I climbed up six flights. Rows of drying laundry lined one side of the roof. On the other side loomed the Dome of the Rock and the Citadel, with the Mount of Olives behind. A group of travelers sat in the shade of an outstretched tarp on an assortment of rickety stools, rough benches and crates. Two blond guys in jean cutoffs and ball-caps led the song on guitars, toes tapping in their sport sandals. From the top of the staircase I could see Andrew strumming along, his back to me. The round chords of the song reverberated across the roof. I started singing along.
    I paused at the edge of the circle and dug my nails into my wrists to fight the urge to push up the sleeves of my plain T-shirt. I imagined the travelers thinking, What the hell is someone dressed like that doing here?
    I wouldn’t stay for the music. I’d just ask Andrew about the trees; then I’d be off. I hovered behind him until the song finished. When he saw me, one light brown eyebrow slid toward his hairline. “Hey, sandwich girl, good to see you. Have a seat.”
    “I can’t stay.”
    “You playing hooky again?”
    I laughed and shook my head.
    “Not for one song?”
    “Well…”
    The musicians started playing “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”
    “Um…okay.” I started singing along again.
    Secular music wasn’t really what my life was about now, but it was only for a few minutes. I found a chair among the lines of drying laundry, and Andrew moved over to let me in. A blond woman with a violin offered me a beer. I hesitated and then accepted. The icy bitterness instantly made me feel cooler. A joint made its way around the circle. I held it a moment, letting the sweet smell tickle my nostrils, then passed it along without inhaling. It reminded me of listening to Led Zeppelin with Matt.
    The U2 song ended and someone struck up “Country Roads.” My hands ached to play.
    “You want?” Andrew held out his guitar.
    I shook my head.
    “Here, c’mon. You look like you know this one.”
    I hesitated and then reached for the guitar. “Like the back of my hand.”
    I wanted to take off my hat and shake my sweaty hair out of my tight braids. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand instead. I played G, E minor, D, my voice quietly harmonizing with the others.
    “Yeah,” one of the blond guys called out.
    “Sounds good,” another said.
    I relaxed into the familiar chords and let my head tip back, my eyes close. My mom’s friend Deirdre used to play the song at Sheila’s potluck guitar nights. I’d fall asleep to the music, the smell of chili lingering in the air.
    The song ended and the blond guys launched into a Beatles’ Abbey Road medley . I held the guitar out to Andrew, but he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m sure you know this too.”
    I strummed along. “Actually, I came to ask you