No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

Epilogue

The truck is packed. The house is sold. The trees don’t care. These woods were never mine, they just lent themselves awhile. No one can ever truly own the woods any more than you can own another’s thoughts. Today my dream is to know the mind of a tree.

To that end I hereby decree that I will be buried in a pine box with an acorn in my mouth. An oak will grow from my head, pressing its roots like flowers within my ribs, piercing my skull and slithering deep into the earth. I want my boughs to shelter children a hundred years from now. I want to be a tree where pilgrims trek for knowledge. I want lovers to caress each other in the soft ground beneath my shade. I want to withstand snow and wind, rain and drought, fire and hail. I want to thrive in the woods and die in the woods, return to the woods and become born in the woods.

I want to stay home.

I am ready to leave.