I haven’t known Morgan that long, but I sure do like her. I think we would have been pals in school, were we the same age. Of course, she can write. All my friends are writers.
There is a place, a place that has been a part of me since I was a little girl. Over the rocky hill by my house is a muddy trail that leads to a wide, metal gate and into the woods. Once here, you can choose two different paths. One leads to a tiny, green cabin by a bubbling creek. The other, to a big, open field of fresh, green grass with various patches of tan, dead grass. These are the patches where life has been taken by the cold winters or eaten by the cows that once resided there. Out beyond the clearing is a clump of trees. In the middle of them all stands the biggest tree I’ve ever seen. The Beech tree is a magnificent piece of wood that has a century of memories carved on it. It is the place I go when I feel alone. When I look up at all the carvings of my ancestors and people I loved dearly, it gives me a sense of companionship. It’s as if they were right there with me. My initials as well as my parent’s and best friend’s are in many places on this tree, too. To see them makes my soul smile because I feel like I’m a part of something special. I often daydream about meeting all of those people one day. I’d love to ask them questions like, “When did you carve this?” or “Who was with you?” The responses could be very exciting. I know I will find out someday. I’m looking forward to telling all of those people that they gave me peace and hope even though they weren’t there with me when I ran my fingers over the carvings they created…or were they?