Reading Speed Test
I saw a tree and thought of you, or rather, thought of the way you see trees. I remembered when we walked through the Ramble in Central Park, a wild place in the center of a place wilder still, resplendent and emerald in the early summer sun. You stopped suddenly when you saw it. I remember how you cocked your head in appreciation, a tendril of hair escaped from behind your ear. You brushed it back with an unconscious hand. “There it is,” you said, with such earnest excitement that I couldn't help but feel I was missing something exceptional. I was, as it turns out. You stepped over the little metal fence and wandered into the thicket, leaving me to clamber after you, much as I’d always done. You stopped in front of a tree, a tree among many others, seemingly just the same. But it wasn’t, not to you. “Look at the way the branches duck and curl and reach around those of the other trees,” you said to me. Or maybe it wasn’t to me at all. “The way they’ve grown in such seemingly random chaos in pursuit of the sun.” You patted it approvingly and laughed a little when you saw I was standing behind you. “What do you think?”. You’d brought me to see your favorite tree in Central Park, the type of thing I’d never even thought to have. You were always collecting favorites, or at least you did then, of strange little things. Your favorite brick on the facade of your old W 83rd street apartment building, the one to the right of the door, covered in lichen. Your favorite letter of the alphabet, but only in lowercase, and only in Times New Roman. Your favorite aisle in the local drug store, the one with the greeting cards. I looked at your tree, not really sure what I thought, having never thought much of a singular tree before. I made some dumb joke about seeing the forest from the trees.