DISINTEGRATION

One October night in high school I was wandering around and noticed a fallen leaf covered in delicate dew. The sudden urge to lick the dew from the leaf overcame me. It was sweet and cool, with the rough texture of the leaf lingering in my senses. I miss the flutter that comes from experiencing something for the first time. The second and third time I licked leaves were not nearly as satisfying.

My grandparents had a Sequoia stump in their backyard when I was a child. It was so large that my sister and I would have to climb a ladder to have tea parties on it. I miss those large, encompassing trees and their powerful comfort.

I discovered a tree with a huge cut limb. I patched it the best I could, knowing it would not last. The tree did not need me to heal it, but I needed to be needed.