When I was little, we had the grandest forest with a roaring river down at the bottom of the hill; at least that’s how big it felt from the perspective of a six year old.
Every summer day, Christopher and I would run into the brush and make our way down the paths we’d memorized from years of exploration. Sometimes we would spend the days catching salamanders, other times we would sit on the Big Rock and have a picnic. One thing we always did was climb the trees.
We each had our own special spot--mine was a magnolia with great big glossy leaves. Christopher’s was a slightly thinner oak that he had to shimmy up to reach the bottom-most branch.
From our perches we would chat and daydream the afternoons away.
This pattern is for Christopher, who believed in a world so deeply that everything around him came to life.
