Telephone of the Tree

An unforgettable story of grief and the support of community as a young girl, faced with aching loss, begins to understand that what we love will always be with us.

Ayla and her best friend Kiri have always been tree people. They each have their own special tree, and neighbors and family know that they are most likely to be found within the branches. But after an accident on their street, Kiri has gone somewhere so far away that Ayla can only wait and wait in her birch, longing to be able to talk with Kiri again.

Then a mysterious, old-fashioned telephone appears one morning, nestled in the limbs of Ayla's birch tree. Where did it come from? she wonders. And why are people showing up to use this phone to call their loved ones? Especially loved ones who have passed on.

All Ayla wants is for Kiri to come home. Until that day comes, she will keep Kiri's things safe. She'll keep her nightmares to herself. And she will not make a call on that telephone.

Autorentext

Alison McGhee is the New York Times bestselling author of books for all ages in all forms, including What I Leave Behind, Shadow Baby, Firefly Hollow, and Someday. She is the recipient of many awards and grants, including the Geisel Medal, the Christopher Award, four Minnesota Book awards, and Minnesota State Arts Board and McKnight Foundation grants. Her work has been translated into more than twenty languages. She grew up in upstate New York and lives in Minneapolis.

Zusammenfassung
"Inspired by Itaru Sasaki s phone booth in Japan, where people can symbolically call deceased loved ones, McGhee lays bare the powerful emotions entangled with loss while demonstrating the strength found in community." Booklist

"McGhee injects a speculative twist to this tender tale about death and grief. Employing spare, sensory language, McGhee explores the painful negative space created by loss and the devastation of a friendship cutshort, as well as the healing found in moving forward while remembering that 'there s more... so much more.'" *Publishers Weekly

• Rather than trot in a therapist or some other mouthpiece for wise counseling, the author gives her protagonist subtler (and more believably effective) help reaching that insight most notably parents who give her space rather than unwanted advice, and her grandfather s old telephone. Readers feeling Ayla s profound sense of loss will be relieved when she finds a way to live with it. Raw and sad but lit with occasional glints of humor and ending, as it should, on a rising note." Kirkus, starred review

  * The reveal that the phone was placed by Ayla s grandpa who used it to call his wife after she passed is just one beautiful details in a story that focuses on generational healing rather than generational trauma. While more mature readers may quickly realize that Kiri has died, the novel s hybrid of lyrically written plot fragments and stream of consciousness serve to poetically reveal the facts as Ayla becomes ready to process them." The Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books*, starred review

  * In a first-person narrative, ten-year-old Ayla's loose, dreamy narrative dances around current details, but she eventually confides she misses her best friend Kiri, insisting that her friend will be back soon. Ayla divulges small incidents and observations like a trail of breadcrumbs, allowing readers to piece together what she herself cannot admit: Kiri is not coming home. Ayla s voice as she comes to terms with what has happened, combined with the care and understanding of those supporting her while she grieves, create an intensely emotional reading experience." The Horn Book Magazine*, starred review

  "Award-winning writer McGhee has penned another memorable story. Ayla s narration beautifully captures the grieving process from the perspective of a child and the characters who surround her are supportive and caring. Beautiful pencil drawings enhance the plot. The use of they pronouns when referring to Kiri makes the story more inclusive for all readers. A lovely book for children (and even adults) who may be grieving; this will grab readers hearts." School Library Journal

  Leseprobe
  How I picture the night Kiri and I first met each other, first looked into each other s eyes, first reached for each other s hand, back when we were babies:
  The moon like a bright white ship sailing through the sky.
  Tree limbs dark against the moonlight, branches reaching to the invisible sun.
  Kiri s mom holding Kiri tight in her arms and dancing Kiri down the block.
  My dad holding me tight in his arms and dancing me down the block.
  In the bright moonlight they dance their crying babies up and down the block so we ll stop crying, so we ll be peaceful, so we ll . . .
  sleep
  sleep
  sleeeeeeep

  I picture Kiri s mom and my dad whispering the names of all the trees to Kiri and me as they dance us past:
  oak maple willow
  birch pine mulberry
  crabapple ginkgo butternut
  and all those whispers weave their way into our hearts that night, so that night of dancing with the trees becomes the night that made
  Kiri and me
  love trees
  maybe even
  want to be trees
  because of their tall, strong calm

  Almost all the trees on our block were planted to celebrate new babies

  oak for Pops
  maple for Dad
  mulberry for Mrs. S
  weeping willows for Rowan and Geneva
  little crabapple for Gentleman
  baby birch for me
  baby pine for Kiri

  The oak and maple and mulberry trees are tall and wide now. They ve been growing as long as Pops and Dad and Mrs. S have been alive.
  But two of the trees were planted not for new babies, but in remembrance of people who passed on.
  The ginkgo in honor of Mrs. S s husband, Douglas, because he loved their beautiful fan-shaped leaves.
  The butternut in honor of my grandmother Randa, because she loved to eat butternuts.

  Fast-forward to second grade. Kiri and I are in Mr. Nesbitt s class. He has just told us all to draw aWhat Do You Want to Be? picture.
  Imagine yourselves at age thirty, he says.
  Thirty?
  Kiri and I are seven. It takes a long time for us just to count to thirty. We look at each other.
  I mean, my mom is thirty, Kiri whispers.
  My parents are thirty-one, I whisper back.
  Will we ever be that old? When we get to that age, will we feel old?
  Thirty is so, so far in the future.

  But Kiri and I know what we want to be. We ve always known, known from the night our parents danced us past the trees.
  I look over at Kiri, who s already drawing, sketching an outline on rough paper.
  Tall brown trunk. Branches curving downward, filled with pine cones. A child with braids and a round face smiling out of the trunk itself.
  White pine! I say.
  Kiri nods and smiles. Their own white pine, planted in front of their house at the end of the block when Kiri was born, is already taller than they are.
  My turn.

  I pick up a tan crayon and a white crayon and a green crayon and begin to draw.
  White trunks split at the base and curve upward. Papery branches float out and up. Green leaves dance on limbs.
  River birch! Kiri says.
  Yup!
  Then:
  TREES? Martina says in her Martina voice. Kids can t be TREES.
  Martina always, somehow, knows what to say to make others feel bad.

  Right away my hand covers up the drawing. Right away Martina s eyes flash and she smirks. She knows she s gotten to me.
  Martina always gets to me.
  But not to Kiri.
  What s your problem, Martina?
  Kiri is calm, and their voice is soft, and their question sounds like a question but isn t. What Kiri is really saying isback off.
  Mr. Nesbitt told us to draw what we want to be, right? Kiri continues. And Ayla and I want to be tree