Trees don’t talk. You know that. I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.

However, did you also know that certain trees whisper? Really. They do. Surely, you’ve heard of places like “Whispering Pines.” These are places developed by great men with large bank accounts and equally large bellies. If such men haven’t got a large bank account or a large belly, they instead have something called “leverage” — what great men have when they borrow a bit of money and put it in the bank long enough to call it their own — or until it begins to smell like their own, at any rate.

That rate, by the way, is usually fixed and favorable, which is why their bellies become large.

Such men also have rather peculiar notions concerning trees. They cut them down and exchange them for packets of seedlings and a few million dollars, euros or yuan. The few million are not really what’s important to them; the seedlings are. At the end of the day, these men leave a few token trees standing, then call their creation “Whispering Pines.” To provide company for the trees, they build houses and shopping centers, install plumbing, electricity, telephone and cable, then surround the whole bit with a wall, a security gate and minimum-wage guards to keep out the riff-raff. No one likes the riff-raff — least of all, the trees. And so, everyone is happy —

— except the guards.

I’d like to tell you about two trees in particular, both pines. One was big; the other, small. Although they looked very much alike — except in size, of course — you really couldn’t say they were related. But they were.

Both pines grew up in Connecticut. Let me explain. The big pine was already quite grown up, over sixty feet tall. The small pine, barely twenty-four inches, had barely even begun to sprout needles. The grove in which they’d grown up knew nothing of development, of leverage, of anything at all belonging to great men with large bank accounts. It knew only of pine trees, big and small — and knew, too, that certain trees whispered.

Christmas tree farmers are something else you should know about. They’re the nice men who grow trees for a living. Or, if they work for a conglomerate that grows trees by the billion and ten, they’re called Agri-tycoons. “Tycoon” sounds a lot like “monsoon” or “typhoon.” A tycoon may be just as windy, but is less wet.

The sixty-footer was proud, well-trimmed, happy to spread itself out like a big dog in the sun — or keep still like a kitten in the shade. From its tippy top, the tall tree could see Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont, New York, even a smidgen of Canada. It didn’t much care for Canada, as Canada was competition — nice trees, but always looking south for opportunities. (Well, until recently, that is.)

Our very tall pine, because it was a noble pine, had noted and taken an interest in the small pine almost from the moment the bracts had opened on a particular cone out of which the small pine had dropped as a seed. The tall pine was busy, mind you, very busy keeping watch over the thousands upon thousands of other pines in the grove — not to mention over its own growth — but it now had the luxury of age and could afford to cover seedlings. And so, it kept a special tall pine’s eye out for one small pine — which, when all is said and done, is the subject of our story.

Our very tall pine, because it was a noble pine, had noted and taken an interest in the small pine almost from the moment the bracts had opened on a particular cone out of which the small pine had dropped as a seed.

One day in early fall, an odd assortment of men came to the grove, came afoot, came well-dressed. They — like the agri-tycoons — looked serious about their business; and yet, they were not entirely insensible of their surroundings. To a tall, whispering pine, their manner of speech was not unpleasant. They spoke and gestured little, did not slap each other on the back and laugh, did not otherwise disturb the quiet of the grove — but merely looked, measured, and took notes.

The small pine had never seen such a collection of men. The tall pine had — many times. This, however, was the first time the tall pine had seen such a collection of men looking, measuring, and taking notes — on it.

Over the next several weeks, the days grew shorter, the nights longer, the mornings chillier, the evenings damper. The danger for a forest lies neither in winter with the cold, nor in summer with a drought, nor even in spring with the floods, but with autumn, when too many trees busily flaunt their foliage and fail to realize that life is not everlasting.

Our two conifers, because they belonged to the family Pinaceae, did not flaunt their foliage. The truth is, they had no foliage to flaunt. They had only needles: green in summer; green in winter; green in spring and fall — which is why they’re called “evergreens.”

Some of these same men came back again, but this time, in the company of a larger group with saws.

They gathered around the big pine and muttered among themselves, though not with elaborate gestures.

One gave a signal. Another immediately started up a saw and clove into the wood of the tall pine — which much disturbed the quiet of the grove. The tall pine didn’t complain, but instead turned to the small pine and whispered: “It is as it should be.”

The small pine was dumbfounded. It stood stock still.

The tall pine continued. “I am a noble pine. I can stand tall, reign over the grove, live a life everlasting — or at least for as long as this grove stands. They may cut me, but I feel nothing of their cuts. Their implements may bite me, but I do not feel their implements’ teeth. They may insult me, curse and disturb the quiet, but I remain deaf to their insults and curses. Close your ears, little pine. Close them.”

The little pine closed its ears and tried desperately to overcome a desire to whisper back: Why are they cutting you, big pine? Where are you going? Where are they taking you? The little pine was full of questions. It could only think the questions, yet the big pine heard the little pine’s thoughts as if spoken.

“I’m going to the big city,” the big pine whispered. “I have a purpose there — as I’ve had a purpose here. Until now — ”

“ — but you still have a purpose here,” said the little pine. “You still have thousands upon thousands of trees to watch over. And, you still have me.”

The big pine took a long time to consider its answer. Maybe it was tired. Maybe it was not used to being interrupted. Maybe it was suffering from shock. It wanted to answer the little pine, but it was running out of sap.

“Yes,” the big pine finally whispered back — grimacing slightly as the saw cut into a knot. “But I also have a purpose there — in the big city — where thousands upon thousands will come to look at me to find a once-in-a-lifetime happiness. They won’t know I’m dying. The lights in my branches will suggest that life is everlasting — and they will believe.”

“But you will be dying,” murmured the little pine.

“Yes.”

“But you will be dying,” the little pine murmured again — and then was silent.

At long last, the men seemed to be finished with their saws and their noise; and yet, the tall pine still stood.

Are you dead? the little pine thought, but could not bring itself even to whisper.

No, the tall pine thought back. I’m just retiring.

After what seemed an eternity to the little pine, the tall pine creaked; bowed briefly to the wind; then came crashing to the ground. As it hit, even the earth seemed to bounce — and the little pine with it.

It is done, the little pine thought.

No, it is not! the tall pine thought back, now reaching out a branch to embrace and render the little pine invisible to the men. I still have you. And no man, no saw, no implement or circumstance shall separate us. Not now. Not forevermore. And with that, the tall pine flexed its branch and pulled the little pine out of the ground, roots and all.

You may well wonder how a tree — any tree — could flex a branch and pull another out of the ground, roots and all. I will tell you only that the tall pine, though now baseless, had an omnipotent will, and that the little pine had very shallow roots. Besides which, we’re talking Christmas — at which time, things of the most extraordinary kind may happen.

The trip from the tree farm in Connecticut to Rockefeller Center in Manhattan was not a long one — not, at least, by human standards. Humans require frequent hydration. Luckily, for humans, water is relatively easy to come by. Trees, too, require hydration. Water is the bread and breath of life as we know it. The little pine, as much out of thirst as out of its fear of abandonment, allowed itself a whimper.

“Be strong and keep still, little pine,” the big pine whispered. You’ve not had the advantage of my years of long, hot summers and of long, dry winters. Be strong. You may no longer grow up to be a big pine like me, but you can still grow to be huge in your own way.”

The two pines made the trip in silence. The little pine occasionally wanted to whimper due to its thirst, but kept silent. The big pine, with a much greater thirst because of its size, also wanted to complain, but kept silent. The two suffering pines, because of their shared thirst, maintained an absolute, shared silence.

At long last, the truck carrying both pines arrived in New York City. Neither pine, quite obviously, had ever seen so much light — at least not at night. Had they been less thirsty, they might’ve become excited. As it was, however, they could only register the light as a glimmer. And the glimmer, let’s be frank, was not of hope.

A different set of men met the truck and began to unravel the chains. The big pine bore the noise in silence and kept the ears of the little pine covered with a branch. The chains, even as they were being unraveled, whispered their apologies to both pines, link by link.

As it was, however, they could only register the light as a glimmer. And the glimmer, let’s be frank, was not of hope.

Once the chains had been undone, the big and little pine lay free. What followed remained a mystery.

They spent the remainder of the night in near silence. The lights of Rockefeller Center were much like the reflected light of the moon, but less so; they lacked the moon’s grace and nuance. Some time after midnight, but well before dawn, one of the men who’d helped to unravel the chains stopped, found a receptacle for water, then proceeded to massage the base of the big pine with a handful of wet newspapers. He mumbled to the big pine in a language the big pine had never heard, but the big pine was no less grateful for the attention.

As soon as the man left, the big pine turned an ear to the little pine.

“I can’t sleep,” the little pine whispered.

“Nor I,” whispered the big pine. “Come.” And with that, the big pine curled the needles of its branch around the little pine and scooched it in. From the brief mingling of their needles, the little pine took water — the bread and breath of life.

At dawn, their nearly silent night done, both pines slowly awoke to the sounds of the big city. Truth is, those sounds had started much earlier, had started with the clamorous roll of the garbage trucks. The little pine had been the first to awaken, had fidgeted as any little pine would, but had been mindful not to awaken the big pine. As soon as the sun had cleared the horizon, however, the big pine awoke to find itself lying in a pool of its own sap.

“Today” the big pine said, “is my Golgatha.”

The little pine had no idea what the big pine was talking about. It thought the big pine might be hallucinating because of its thirst — then thought again quickly.

“Be strong and keep still, big pine,” the little pine whispered. You’ve not had my advantage of youth, of brief summers and brief winters. Be strong. Your days as a big pine reigning over the grove may already be over, but you can still be huge in your own way.”

The little pine had no idea what the big pine was talking about. It thought the big pine might be hallucinating because of its thirst — then thought again quickly.

The big pine crinkled its needles at the little pine. (This is how pines smile at one another.)

In spite of the cold, a whole new crew bearing toasty Christmas sentiments arrived with a crane and a stand as big as a Yellow Cab to erect the big pine at Rockefeller Center so that people could come to admire it — and, they hoped, to admire their work so there would be more of it the following year.

They hitched the crane to the big pine and dragged it up to a vertical position. As they did so, the big pine had to let go of the little pine. The little pine, for the first time, felt truly abandoned. Its needles began to dry out quickly and fall off — not because it lacked water, but because it lacked contact with the big pine. It was shrinking in desolation.

The big pine, now standing vertical (but still hitched to the crane), looked down and directed its thoughts at the little pine: Don’t even think of dying. Not here. Not now. Your life has barely begun. You are my continuation. My life. My life everlasting.

The little pine sighed; looked at the dry needles it had just shed; made a little pine’s gesture to brush them off the flatbed on which it still lay; then looked up speechless at the pig pine.

Throughout the day, many men worked on the big pine. There were hundreds of strands of lights and thousands of bulbs to hang. To them, the big pine was a work in progress — a paycheck — to buy Christmas gifts for their children. Beneath them, at this very moment, hundreds skated on artificial ice. To either side of them, hundreds of others dined on something resembling food. It was as the big pine had predicted: thousands upon thousands would come to wish and to believe.

And come they did. They came from many countries and continents, speaking many languages, following many faiths. They came knowing little of Rockefeller Center, caring nothing of the provenance of little pines or big pines — knowing and caring even less about Connecticut — whether the Connecticut of Darien, of Southport or even of New Haven —and yet they came. They came with a wish: that one more year and one more big pine could deliver them from the present. What’s more, their wish was the distillation of the wish of millions of others who could only dream of making such a trip. Their wish was as exuberant as maple syrup — and just as sticky.

By the end of the day, the work was finished. That same evening, the lights would be lit. That same evening, the big pine would come into its full Christmas glory — as it approached death.

The flatbed prepared to pull out. One man stood atop it and swept needles to the ground. His broom nudged the little pine and then rose up to knock it to the pavement.

I will not be swept to the pavement, the little pine thought with a little pine’s hubris. I am a little pine from Connecticut, scion to a big pine from Connecticut, and I am a water-bearer — the bread and breath, etc.

The man had no ear for the little pine’s thoughts and promptly whacked it and its thoughts to the ground.

Onlookers were now gathering at Rockefeller Center to watch the lighting of the big pine. As they gathered and jostled for position, they trampled the little pine underfoot. More of its needles grew brittle, fell off and were shoed away indifferently by many feet shod in leather, rubber, or vinyl to the silent protestations of a little half-dead pine.

At the appointed hour, with spotlights fixed on the big pine while thousands upon thousands gazed on and millions of others gazed through the dead, metallic eye of television, the lights of the big pine were lit.

Oohs and ahhs; sighs; then applause — none of which meant anything to the big pine, now close to death. Needless to say, nothing came bac. through the metallic eye of the television camera, either.

At the appointed hour, with spotlights fixed on the big pine while thousands upon thousands gazed on and millions of others gazed through the dead, metallic eye of television, the lights of the big pine were lit.

A great deal of hoopla followed the grand event of the lighting of the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center, and all of the great men associated with the staging of this event felt proud, happy, and oddly self-satisfied. Eventually, however, the evening had to come to a close — as all evenings must, good or bad.

The crowd diminished stratum by stratum until only the clean-up crews remained. Legions upon legions of men with brooms descended upon Rockefeller Center to sweep away the remnants of the lighting of the great Christmas Tree — formerly, the big pine.

The little pine huddled in a corner, on the sidewalk, with only a cold cement wall to give it support, and focused all of his energy on just one thought: Why have you forsaken me, big pine?

At intervals, men bearing brooms swept by. At further intervals, the lights around Rockefeller dimmed, then went out. The lights on the big pine remained bright and undiminished — as did the light of the moon, now even more graceful and nuanced. The big pine, not visible to the little pine huddled in its corner, necessarily stood out of sight, out of touch, and most likely — thought the little pine — out of water.

A single garbage truck turned the corner at 49th Street and started up towards 5th Avenue —the last detail making its final round of clean-up. Men in uniform re-emptied empty garbage cans into the truck, speared or swept up last pieces of paper and napkins, and readied the street for the next day’s business. The little pine saw them coming, saw the finality of their clean-up efforts, envisioned the finality of a life the big pine had once called “everlasting.” But without the big pine, the little pine felt it could no longer join “ever” to “lasting.”

One of the street-cleaners picked the little pine up by a needleless branch. The branch broke, and the little pine fell back to the pavement.

“Yo,” the cleaner yelled to the driver. “Here comes a hole in one,” he yelled again as he set his broom up behind the little pine.

The driver smirked.

The street-cleaner studied the little pine, studied his broom and the maw at the rear of the garbage truck, then figured. He swept the broom back slowly, then brought it forward with a wallop. His broom drove the little pine into the air on a tiny arc. The maw, or hopper—quite indifferent to its contents — waited open-mouthed and dumb.

As the little pine observed its own descent towards the hopper of the garbage truck, something happened for which I can provide no answer.

I’m a reasonable writer. You’re a reasonable reader. We reason — together. Still, there are moments and instances in which all reasonable bets are off. This was one such moment.

The little pine did not fly off into the hopper of the garbage truck. Instead, it flew to the truck’s front bumper and took a seat. The driver laughed. In their laughter, unfortunately, the men lost their way to “awestruck.”

The lights of the big pine dimmed momentarily. In that same instant, lights unseen on the little pine were illuminated, and the little pine became a beacon — for the garbage truck to finish the job, no doubt, but also to guide the truck back home to its berth either in Brooklyn or in the Bronx.

The language of these two pines — big to little, little to big — had become a language of signs. The little pine had silently sent out a distress call; the big pine had silently answered it with energy. Their exchange had occurred without a single word or thought.

So, if you have ever wondered why garbage trucks in New York City carry a lighted little pine on their front bumpers at Christmas time, now you know. If the little pines are lucky, by the way, the drivers also keep a supply of water on hand — the bread and breath of life.