In Oregon: roadside tree.

A road sign gave us the information, pulling over would be important. “The oldest tree in Oregon.” I wanted to keep driving, two more hours and we’d be in Portland by six. You wanted nature.

The path was lined with ferns, shuffling was necessary to not stumble on roots. As I walked I slapped my keys on my thighs. Your footsteps ended. I took a deep breath, ready to turn back. However, I became entangled by your gaze. I followed your line of sight to the tree, the massive trunk. Branches thinker than our bodies twisted upward and vanished into the thick green canopy. I squeezed the car keys. For a moment I imagined they were seeds; I imagined planting them, if only to leave something.

Journal Comments

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