She walks up to the oak tree, the one in the backyard of her suburban house in Georgia, and sits down in its shade. Or at least, where the tree’s shade would have been if it gave off any. This tree, instead, while having plentiful leaves and branches for the leaves to grow on, gives no cool relief from the sun's heat on any day of the year. So, she stands up and walks in a great big circle, her eyes furiously scanning the earth ground for any dark patches, and ends right back where she has started, with nothing to show for it. She, in a slight slip of wit and the loss of knowledge that trees, in fact, cannot talk, yells, “Why don't you give me any shade? Are you not a tree? Who is in charge here?” In response to her question, a voice, quiet and feminine, whispers, “Nymphs”

Nymphs.

Nymphs!

Nymphs?

What even are Nymphs?

She wonders this exact statement in her own mind where objects of wonder often dwell. This is why her heart skips when the voice whispers again, “Nymphs are us, and we are nymphs.” To this, she does not know what to do or how to respond. This is a very peculiar situation, one that most people, or more likely, no people, have ever experienced before. She decides that she could not, would not, have a chat with these so-called “nymphs” without gaining more information on who exactly she is chatting with. This is why she, again, speaking to a tree, calls out, “Well, could you give me some more context, or erm, information. Please?” At first, nothing happens. In fact, for exactly seven minutes, absolutely nothing happens. Why she stays there and waits, she would never know. But she does. After those seven minutes are up, a small puff of wind carries her up, up, up. She lands on what seems like a soft head of broccoli. However, using her common sense, she comes to the conclusion that she is now on top of the oak tree. “This is not exactly the kind of information that I was asking for,” she says. The voice comes again and says, breathlessly, “I recall that you have asked who was in charge of this very oak tree, and while we are not in charge, we are responsible for it. When we say ‘we,’ we mean us. We are nymphs, there are 7 of us, and we control the leaves, branches, bark, shade-.” “I am sorry, but I just want to know where the shade has gone? I come to this very tree to sit in its shade and relax, and yet there is no shade to be found?” she interrupts. Another 7 minutes go by, during which she stays seated on the tree until ‘they’ appear. ‘They’ meaning the 7 nymphs mentioned previously. After examining the creatures that have just appeared in front of her, she thinks to herself, “Oh, so they are basically fairies without wings.” At the same time, all of the   ̶f̶a̶i̶r̶i̶e̶s̶ nymphs scrunch up their perfect faces. They whisper in perfect harmony, “We are not fairies, for we are responsible for every bit of the nature you see around you, including this very tree you are sitting on. It is a very nice tree, is it not?” To this, she responds flatly that it would be a very nice tree if it gave of shade, seemingly not knowing that this could be perceived as a very rude thing to say. However, the nymphs, being understanding of the young age of the child, respond with a hushed, “This tree will never have shade, as we do not think it should.” She thinks about this for a while, and even though this is an answer, it is one that she is not content with. This is why she then tells the nymphs that she is not satisfied with the explanation that she is given and that she would like another one. Ever patient, the nymphs decide without speaking that they would explain to the young girl, even though it would not do any good. “A long time ago, when this tree was just a sapling, it did, in fact, give off a small amount of shade, and it continued to give off shade as it grew larger and larger. People flocked to this tree to bask in its cool relief, which was alright, until it started to attract people of an aggressive manner. These people who decided to come to the tree started to take up the act of carving their initials into the tree’s magnificent coffee-colored bark! They may not have understood, but they were slowly killing the tree; leaching the life out of it. We asked them calmly to stop many times, each time they came back with more knives to carve. Not only did they come, but they came laughing. Laughing! So, we had no other choice but to take away what they came to the tree: the shade. So this, my dear, is why there is no shade. I know that this may not make sense to you right now, but it will one day.” With that, the same gust of wind gently sat her back down on the shadeless ground. She walks home, confused and unhappy with the nymphs. Even now, being one day older, she still does not understand. “Oh,” she sighs, “Nymphs and their trees.”