Friday, May 16, 2025. 64.7* Overcast
A tree overnight was painted with white flowers, in fact, several trees taller than me flowered. If I could get closer, if I could stand on the tangled slope going into the pond, I could recognize the tree by its bark if I remember; I may need a book about the northern woods.
In winter we walked through the woods hand in hand sometimes single file, sometimes clambering over the fallen, over boulders. I scratched my watch face on a rock. Only the conversation of snow and wind were heard until interrupted by his question: “What tree is this?” He was always teaching me about things he loved. I may forget the things, the names of trees, but I never forget his love.
Gratitude is when memory is stored
in the heart and not in the mind. - Lionel Hampton
Photo: LJ Austin
