Mrs March retells me the story about the first time she got behind the wheel and successfully gained a mailbox along the way. My insides ached from deep laughter. She had probably told me this story a million times, but I hoped she would tell it a million more. Mrs March lived on the other side of town of me. I never went outside when visiting her, she told me once that it would be safer to sell myself, whatever that meant. She brought out a beautiful display of cookies, each decorated with strings of icing sugar and beads of sprinkles. She set them down rather roughly and gazed upon me curiously. I held out my hands to Mrs March, but she refused to take them. Instead, she shoves a delicate cookie in my direction. I shrug, “but Mrs March, we have not said grace yet.” She spits harshly and yells something I cannot understand. She throws the cookie plate against the wall and it shatters loudly. I couldn’t understand why she was so angry. I recklessly searched for any possibility. Relieved, I find my answer. “Mrs March, don’t worry. I will pray for more cookies. “
I am assuming that the assumption you are making should not be assumed.
If I could build my home anywhere, I would choose the feeble view of the tree tops. In every which direction, I can see it all, no high rise to control me. Along side my trunk, will be the harmony of my neighbours. The sweet summertime will be accompanied by the continuous chorus. And when winter approaches and they leave, I will drown myself in the noise of my own thoughts. With few expenses, I am not binded to any contract , and can accept the idea to pack up and leave at any point. I am forced to observe the beautiful change between seasons and the timeless portrait of the sunrises and sunsets. I beg you to consider the world above us, not around us. Therefore, if ever your mind urges you for an adventure, do come visit. For, I will be living where the feeble view of the tree tops, touches the sky above us.