This is a story for a new year: a combination of loss and epiphany—a beginning unfurling beyond an end.
It starts on a hill, a steep descent where the road had been bordered by enwombing trees—a cool shady tunnel during the summer, a place where ferns and flowers nestled against the almost vertical edge on one side, a place where I felt safe.
Then the farmers at the foot of the hill began clearing trees, truck after truck dragging loads of logs away. I was dismayed but thought the trees along the road weren’t substantial enough to go too.
Apparently they were. One day, they were gone, leaving the other side of the road—previously shady and fernful—exposed to glaring sunlight. I mourned the trees; I mourned the ferns.
But I admired the view.