only, that I should write
12 September 2004
7:18 p.m.
A coworker told me the other day about seeing the oldest tree in Northern Europe. He mentioned it off-handedly, since we were talking about trees, but I can't remember why.
He said it was humbling. Standing there in the wind, in the cold. He admitted to me that he almost cried, and he didn't offer reasons why he almost cried, just that he did.
I hardly talk to this man. He's quiet. Shy. Dismissive. Each morning I thank him for bringing me a pile of work. Each morning he offers the same half grin, the same expression filled with an acknowledgement that this is life--he is half amused, half apologetic.
The oldest tree in Northern Europe, he said, does not overtake you with size, though its presence crushes you: it is twisted and withered and you become afraid that it could be blown away at any moment. In fact, man has moored it to the earth, to keep it in place.