They are the slow wandering years, whether you remember or not.

The rain streaking the fogged window.

He watches, in the chair like a grown-up, sad under the appeal of the position, the rain magnified in his eyes.

He is only a child. He is more. He is nothing. He is everything. They were all true.

The trees slow and turning, canopies of red and umber leaves that are like ancient swords, but bright and gleaming as if trapped underwater, moving in invisible currents of warmth and darkness.

She said she could hear them. She put her hand to the trunk like feeling a heartbeat, the skin frail against the time-enduring bark…feeling its wrinkles, feeling its folds, telling the other fast-moving children not to take off the bark, for it hurts it…she feels a bond for it, yet she does not understand. She does not know yet. It will all change.