Last Sunday

Last Sunday we hiked in the mountains where seven years ago we scattered Sandy’s ashes. The weather was beautiful—in the 30s with mostly sunny skies and several inches of snow on the ground. We admired the views of snowy peaks and the forest of deep green firs with patches of silver, bare-branched aspens.

On our way down, a group of six or seven older women suddenly appeared, laughing and chattering, beautiful against the snow in their cornflower blue, lavender, and gray winter gear, like a flock of happy angels. They asked if we would take their picture. While Ron tended to the photo, I noticed the most amazing tree.

A smaller aspen had fallen against a larger one, which grew around it in a curlicue as if to support it. But the smaller tree was leaning at an impossible angle and eventually broke off and died. This was my favorite photo of the day. I only wish the smaller tree had managed to survive.