The Seven Sisters

I have long been in love with this group of seven trees, Eastern cottonwoods, that stand together on the side of our path near the river. I named them the seven sisters because of the way they live together, separate but sharing.

When I take a walk when it's windy, you can hear them talking with one another, checking in to see how everyone is faring. Even though some have a greater girth than the others, their equal height and the arms they raise to the skies speak to me of a bond that I find among the women I care about and who take care of me.

Yesterday, they bathed in the sky, letting their hair down, so to speak, their faces turned to one another. "Wow, amazing winter, wasn't it?" one says.

"One of the coldest I ever remember," another says. "Nearly froze my sap off."

When Jay and I lived in Houston, Texas for a couple of long years, I discovered that my greatest longing was for the trees of home. I've played among the trees my whole life, read books while resting in their branches, leaned against them in sorrow, watched their leaves tell me that the weather was going to change. To me, they are a comfort, goddesses that let me walk among them.

Just like my women friends.