A sixty-five year old apple tree grows in my yard. It's perfectly centered between my house and my detached two-car garage. The base of the trunk comes off slightly from the ground, giving the impression that it is leaning forward. The surrounding terrain is uneven and rugged, with roots weaving in and out of the earth, as if seeking a breath of fresh air. Unlike the rough, deeply grooved surface usually associated with trees; the bark on my tree is smoother and pimple-like with sections peeling off in sheets. The actual trunk is only eight feet tall and not very wide, but the height and width of the branches are twice as large, making it heavy. Although it is not a huge tree, it dominates the surrounding landscape. Being the oldest and wisest vegetation, it demands pre-existence from the surrounding landscape. Over the course of a year, my apple tree takes on multiple faces, demonstrating the circle of life. During the winter months, the apple tree is gray and lifeless. Having been stripped of all its leaves, its branches are barren and jagged. Frozen in place, they stick stiffly into the air and are reluctant to sway even in strong winter winds. The tree appears dry and brittle. Birds no longer prefer it as a refuge. They abandoned their previous home for the pine trees on my neighbor's property. The tree evokes a cold and sad feeling. He is physically present, but at the same time somehow absent. Unlike death, this is temporary...