Nana used to say that she believed trees were people reincarnated, and you could tell what kind of person they had been by what kind of tree they were now. The full, deeply green trees were mothers, their lush leaf curtains providing just the right amount of protection from a scorching sun. Under these trees you could find respite, a mother’s cool hand against her child’s flushed forehead.
The ugly trees had been bad people. Trees with branches that appear decayed, that have no hope of ever being kissed by spring; dry bark that peels and flakes. These trees had not loved hard enough, given enough, and now they were damned to look on the outside the way they had looked on the inside.
Every tree I see is a potential glimpse at my future. My heart thumps down in these roots.