My family's little cottage teeters precariously atop a sand
dune along the shores of Lake Michigan. As a kid I spent
summers there playing the role of pint-sized frontierswoman,
scrambling through the forest, building forts, and carving my
name into tree trunks with a dull red ax. It was a beautiful
routine, taken for granted. As I grew up, my time at the
cottage lessened, but my mind would unexpectedly drift there
to both rest and wander. Recently, I found my hand and
pencil moving across paper, outlining a form I did not
recognize. Weeks later, while walking the path leading
up to the cottage, my eyes drifted upward and I saw
it – my pod, my pinecone, the same form with the slender
hand-like tufts of needles, reaching out to me. As a
ten-year old with an ax I was desperate to leave a mark. Now
I know that the real mark was left on me.
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