Soft as silk and filled with the fragrance of butterfly milk; I can hardly think of a better summer day, but things didn't always used to be this way. They used to be much worse, and though the world is filled with beauty and hope, the only thing that keeps it from being perfect is the absence of my son. It's been near eleven years since he's died and I've still yet to have grown accustomed to it. He would have loved trees and the scent of grass, and while it had a chance to be a nestled memory in his head while he grew, it's nothing in comparison to how soft it feels under your bare feet or blowing against your ankles.
He was a climber that one, I bet he would have tried to reach to the very tops of the Truffula tufts, maybe even bring them back down to make his own fantastical stuffs. At this age I don't think I could manage any amount of climbing no matter how small, but sometimes I still laze in the swing I've fastened to my own tree. They were gone for so long that I find it disrespectful and horrid to not try and soak up all of their fresh air and shade while I still can. There's probably another twenty years left in me and breaking my neck isn't on the agenda.
Oh dear me, all this talk of trees and the past and dead sons has to be terribly confusing. Starting at the beginning is probably wiser, so if you'll give me the chance to start over then I'll be more than happy to relay the years of my youth.