I believe that the things you notice—that you love, that make you pause—make up who you are. And so it feels, in a way, like those things are a part of you, even though they are outside of you. Which makes me wonder if it would be more accurate to say, perhaps, that a piece of you is kept alive by a part of them. I wonder how many other people think about this tree, or remember it when they think about this street, or this neigh-borhood, or this city. I wonder how many other people stood among its low branches and giant flowers in the spring and felt surrounded by it and thought for just a
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