I stood in front of the giant oak tree and cried. Her roots bulging at my feet like my grandmother’s aching knuckles, her branches loomed over me with the authority that only comes with age. The bark on the trunk was gray from age, but did not diminish the life that she obviously bore. And
I held her hand as she exhaled in defeat. “I can’t do it,” my friend whimpered. “I can’t keep up with Christianity.” My eyes were fixed on her, studying the slightest motion in her face, trying to interpret even the smallest expression. My concern was evident on my face: was my dear friend giving
She had blonde hair and a pink dress made of tulle. She was the most composed companion a seven year-old could ask for, and for a season of my childhood the two of us were inseparable. I took her to the library and read her Where the Wild Things Are, and she listened in placid silence.