A figure in a long denim coat, the external seams bleeding off-white fleece, strode confidently along the concrete drenched avenue. The sun was pouring down, reflecting off the papered over windows of the strip mall. Drawn like a magnet to the only greenery, the now discernibly female figure stepped over the corrugated barrier to meet the tree. Without a word, she spread her arms wide like a child imitating an airplane and embraced the old giant; the last of its kind in this constantly reconstructed city. Her face laid against the rough bark, an eyepatch on her right side concealed me from her view. She stood in communion with the tree, a cold drink in her hand on this false summer day and a blue toque pulled down low on her forehead. Her ankles were visible in that vulnerable spot where sneakers and leggings fail to converge. For its part the tree stood sentinel, a testament to what had come before. Sporting a crown of wide and welcoming branches, leaves not yet dried and withered by October frost, a living relic; the king of Quinpool Road.
