Once, when I was 6, I was sitting in the woods by my house, when the trees began to care for me.

I’m not talking in the literal sense of trees providing oxygen and negative ions kind of care, though there is that breath-swallowing cycle of life to be thankful for.

I’m talking in the spiritual sense that there was something kind and elder-like, something wise and reassuring that you can’t pass off as being a kind of thesis on the different branches of imagination. I think what I’m saying is,

imaginary or not, when I felt really alone, I also felt more at home with, more like a part of, and more loved by everything else that wasn’t part of my human family.

In fact, I can think of some pretty generous rocks whose selflessness brought a tear to my eye on a number of occasions.

It’s why I can now look up at a morning dove on a maple branch and know in my peanut-loving brain that I’ve been in the air and flying with the winged ones for most of my life, which is okay with me. I mean, it kind of has to be on account of the fact that

I believe it’s the adult orphans on this speck in the cosmos that have had to remind the rest of us that love can be in anything, and that it’s possible to belong more deeply to an imaginary family than a real one.