Slow as Honey, Slow as the Moon

Plip. Plip. Plip. Warm rain dripped from one giant leaf to the next, and Amara the baby elephant stood under the biggest leaf of all. She was small for an elephant, with ears like soft gray fans, and she held a ripe mango in her trunk.

The mango smelled like sunshine and honey. Amara wanted to share it with Bea, her best friend, who lived up in the branchy tree. Bea was a sloth. Bea took her time with everything: her time eating, her time climbing, and especially her time saying hello.

That afternoon, Bea had been telling Amara about a beetle she found, a shiny green one with six tickly feet. Amara was in a hurry to find mangoes, so she didn't listen. "Hurry up," she said, and she stomped on ahead. When she looked back, Bea had gone quiet and was climbing up her tree, slow as honey.

Now the rain was falling, the jungle smelled of wet moss and ripe mango, and Amara felt wobbly inside. Not sick. Just wobbly, as if her tummy had a small stone in it. Mama was sitting by the river, close enough to see her, so Amara was safe. But her friend was up the tree, and the mango was getting heavy.

Mama came close and wrapped her trunk around Amara's back. "The mango can wait," Mama said. "Can you?" Amara looked up at the branchy tree. She wasn't sure.

"Bea!" Amara called. "I have a mango! The biggest one!" The leaves rustled. Nothing else happened. Bea took her time.

Amara tried again. She curled her trunk into a trumpet shape, the way the big elephants do, and blew a long, soft whoo. It was the kindest, loudest hello she knew. The leaves rustled once more. A raindrop landed on her nose. Nobody said hello back.

Then Amara tried climbing. She put one front foot on the trunk of the tree. She put the other front foot up too. Elephants, it turns out, do not climb trees. She slid back down with a soft bump and a wobbly wobble.

So Amara sat down in the wet moss and waited. Mama had a word for waiting. Patience, she called it. Waiting with a soft heart. Amara listened to the river going shhh. She listened to a beetle ticking in the leaves. Then she heard something very small, high up in the tree. "Hello," said Bea.

Bea came down branch by branch, slow as honey, slow as the moon. It took a long, long time. Amara didn't hurry her. She just waited and watched her friend's long arms reach, and reach, and reach.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen," said Amara. "The beetle sounded nice." "I'm sorry I went quiet," said Bea. "It's hard to talk when someone stomps." "I'll go slower," said Amara. "I'll go faster," said Bea. Amara thought about it. "Maybe a little faster," she said. And they both laughed, a small soft laugh that made the leaves wiggle.

They split the mango in two. Juice ran down Bea's chin and dripped off Amara's trunk, and the smell of it filled the warm, wet air. "I'm glad you came down," said Amara. "I'm glad you waited," said Bea. One by one, the glow-worms came out and strung themselves through the branches like tiny fairy lights.

The rain slowed. Plip. Plip. The river hummed its long low hum. Bea climbed up onto Amara's head and settled in the soft dip between her ears, and Amara carried her, slow as honey, slow as the moon, along the path to home. Mama walked beside them, her big feet quiet on the moss.

The glow-worms glowed brighter, then softer. Brighter, then softer, like the jungle breathing. The rain went plip. Then plip. Then nothing at all. Bea's long arms went loose and sleepy, and Amara's eyes grew heavy, and the warm dark folded around them like a big green leaf.