Here, the sunlight was always warm and never weighed cold with new things or memories. It filtered through impossible trees while the safety of her father's garden remained forever and ever, amen. None could harm it, none could change it, and none could demand that she look at them or touch them.

Her hands were gloriously bare and without the blue suede gloves which kept them from touch. They were buried in the perfect coolness of rich earth that reminded one of childhood's tottering steps. Between her hands a single sapling shivered in the breeze and tried its best to stand strong and arise to the sun.

"And what is that ones name?" Asked her Father. Perpetually blotted out by a sun that was never behind him. She turned her chin over shoulder and looked up--because she could look at him even though she saw nothing.

She thought about it, weighed it heavily and tasted the decision in her mind. "Damien," she told him.

"Ah," he replied with, perhaps, a touch of sorrow. He reached out placed a hand on her shoulder.

Trees remember everything, and they live until we are no more than dust. I hope that I will not be a tree. I do not think I want to remember everything, but I do not like to see names and memories fade. So I plant trees and give them the names of people fading.