If you zoom in on me, you can find among my rings what looks like a faded antique map, but it’s merely the haphazard effects of time and nature within my fallen shaft. History is kept in different ways, marked by various signs. Some count in rings, some in fallen teeth, some by the length of hair or the girth of limbs.
Here, a memoir is presented in the markings within a protective shell of rough and weathered bark. High above the earth, in the lofty reaches where only birds and squirrels dare to tread, I once soared.
If my branches could speak they would tell you tales of passing seasons, of boys running around atop my roots, of chipmunks dashing among my leaves.
Felled, my story is nearly at an end, but do not weep for me. I’ve scattered thousands of acorns over the years. Our journeys always run into each other ~ where mine leaves off another begins, and where we overlap, where we hold on and intertwine to stay connected, is the space of love.
