It means more now.

I grabbed your hand and pulled you through paths of trees and leaves and branches and bushes. The lightning bugs glowed what seemed to be every color of the rainbow, at our speed. A new tree had grown, just barely visible over the brush.

We knelt down close enough to hear its few first breaths. It began whispering every new secret it had to share with us. We listened. I called to you so we could find our way back. When you caught up, you told me of how you whispered our secret. “It listened,” you said.

I saw our tree yesterday, it had grown much taller than the last time we spoke with it. I saw our initials engraved in its trunk. We are the lone secret it will take to its grave.