Oak trees grow
to be hundreds of years old.
They only have to produce one single tree
every hundred years in order to propagate.
May sound benign to her, but
it was a big thing for me to realize that
when I was there with her.
The acorns fell on the roof then, too...
kept falling, and falling,
and dying, and dying.
And I understood that...
everything that used to be
beautiful about there,
was perhaps hideous.
Now I could feel
what I couldn't feel before.
The cry of all the things that are to die.
In a way dying is reborn.
It's all... very touching...
if it was a children's book.
Acorns don't cry.
She knows that as well as I do.
That's what hope is.
My thoughts summarize my feelings...
Not the other way around.
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