All important things cannot be possessed, cannot be lost. They always existed, they always pierced us, they always blew our minds. We went hiding under the pecan tree, one for each of us, on opposite corners of my lost yard, where all the leaves fall, the squirrel cracks up, and the hawk watches like he cannot believe us. Never mind the oak. The oak was too big, too old, too true. “(Too” does not make sense anymore.) It was nice to see you breathe it.