“Nobody speaks. And the tree stands just ahead of us. I walk towards it, trancelike, and I am glad that no one is following me. It towers over me with a defiant agelessness. Branches gnarled and threatening, some thin enough to snap in two. Others that are thick enough to throw a rope over. I touch its bark. Dad said once that you can tell the story of a tree by cutting it open. I sometimes feel that way. I can't always express what I am feeling out loud. But with paper and pen, I can make sense of everything. There would be no paper without trees, even cursed ones like this.”
Book:A Kind of Spark