The forest grew backwards and the oak forgot my name

I'm walking through a forest where every tree grows backwards — roots in the air, canopy underground. The oak I lost to wilt is there, whole again, and it nods at me like we've been introduced but it doesn't remember my name. I keep checking the harness straps but my hands are made of sawdust and the wind keeps rearranging me. That's the whole thing. Just that, over and over.