The afternoon that Tina and I returned to our place in the woods, a light rain had just fallen and the air was thick with marigolds and pine. We walked through the pine trees, sticky with sap and over branches of oaks that had fallen over the years. It had been four years since we had been together here.

We could tell we were near when she pointed to the stones, barely visible underneath dead leaves and moss, that had lined the short pathway we made leading up to a small clearing. Three rotted tree stumps, one larger than the other two, had been our chairs and table where we had shared secrets and make-believe games.

The large clump of weeds in one corner had been our garden, with clusters of daffodils. In the deep hole in the tree at the edge of our forest home, we had kept treasures, found objects with meaning only for us. The hole was empty now.

The sunlight was fading as we turned to leave, and I took one last look at our childhood refuge. n