Free The Book of Trees by Leanne Lieberman Page B

terrorism against the British. Freedom fighter, terrorist—it all depends on your point of view.”
    Andrew said, “Most Palestinians just want clean water and good schools—basic human rights.”
    I nodded, trying to absorb everything. Jews had been terrorists too? Sonia and Andrew talked about the Palestinian leaders and whether they really wanted peace, and if negotiations with the Israeli government would ever proceed. Sonia said something about the UN being imperialistic, and I tried to remember what Aviva said about the UN’s two-state solution. The guitarists played Elton John’s “Rocket Man.”
    Sonia stood up. “I’m sorry but I have to get going. It was nice meeting you, Mia. Keep asking questions. I can recommend some books if you like.”
    I nodded. “Sure, thanks.” I slouched back in my chair. “I don’t understand politics at all.”
    Andrew smiled. “I don’t get most of it either, but I do know one thing: there’s a power imbalance. And it’s not fair.”
    I sighed. “Power imbalance?” This was far more complicated than trees planted over a village.
    “Israel is a first-world country with huge American financial backing. The Palestinians are a poor native people who have been uprooted.” I must have given him a quizzical look. He sighed. “Have you ever walked the ramparts, the wall around the Old City?”
    “Um, no. I’ve been wanting to go, but I didn’t want to go alone.”
    “Your seminary buddies too busy?”
    “Um, I guess so.”
    “Meet me at Jaffa Gate tomorrow after your classes. I’ll take you on a tour.”
    I felt my cheeks f lush. “That would be great,” I whispered.
    Andrew nodded. “Just one thing.”
    “What’s that?”
    “I wanna hear you play that song of your dad’s, the one you were telling me about. The one about the trees.”
    “Oh, well, sure.” I stood up. “Okay, bye then.” I started backing away.
    “So what time are you done?”
    I stumbled over a crate and bent to rub my calf. “Um, two. If that’s okay.”
    “See you at two.” Andrew gave me another one of his sexy grins, and I felt heat flood my face again, like the Jerusalem sun blazing through me.

    I could hear the chords to Don’s tree song in my head as I waited at the bus stop. Don had played the song for me the previous summer at his cottage, just before we went home. We were up on the saggy porch watching the squirrels run along the railing to take the nuts Sheila had put out.
    You said you could always come home,
But it’ d never be the same.
Oh, Momma, I’m getting old as you,
But I fear I’ ll never be as wise.
    I lay stretched out in a hammock on the rickety screened-in porch. Don’s other songs revealed glimpses of the mystery of his life: songs of driving, of working on a beet farm, of hiding out in a barn in Peterborough, of a field of wild flowers. But this song, I knew it exactly. I’d been in love with Grandma Quinn’s willow too.
    Call off the bulldozers,
Call off our western ways.
This progress, I’ ll have none of it,
’Cause I lost my weeping willow where I used to sit.
    The summer I was twelve, Don took me on a car trip to West Virginia to visit his mother, my Grandma Quinn. I had never been away with just Don, and I was thrilled to spend time with him. The rare times Don stayed at our house, he barely hung out with us. He would lie on the couch, his legs hanging off the edge of the armrest, listening to old blues singers who sounded like they carried heavy burdens. He said he needed stillness to chase away the rumble of the car after being on tour so long. Sometimes he’d take me with him on his walks along the Beaches’ boardwalk. I’d dance around him doing cartwheels, talking nonstop, not expecting answers. Anything Don said was like a little nugget of gold to keep, no matter how banal. I kept his comments in my head the way other girls kept trinkets in a jewelry box: study hard at school, try to see all points of view, take a deep breath