Every night I have the same dream. I walk down a meadow, barefoot, wearing a gown that drags along behind me, caressing the grass I just trampled over. I walk for what seems like seconds, but I look back, and find myself miles away from where I started, the doorway at the very far end of the meadow.

When I look in front of me once again, I find an old oak tree, withered, dead and enormous. It’s still breathtaking, and I find myself wanting to sit on the lowest branch of it, the one that seems to resemble an arm reaching out toward the ground, almost touching it.