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“Sometimes,” she said, ‘’the winter branches make letters, and sometimes,  even words.’’  Her name was India Footlock, and we had never met her before.  “Yesterday, when I looked out the window, I saw the word ‘Lord.’  In script, of course. The first letter was a capital, the rest small.  Every time I looked back, the word was there, plain as could be.”  She paused, thoughtfully, and we waited for her to go on.  “Sometimes there are small branches, broken at the root, and they hang down, swaying at the smallest breeze like murdered men while the others remain still. And this is very sad.”  Another pause, and some of us shuddered.  “Then,  you know,” she continued, “there are the shredded bits of plastic things that never had life at all, but have lived for years in the same tree, and they too sway in the smallest breeze.’’  She rose and left the room, to check on  the tea, she said. And so we never knew if the old and tattered plastic had also claimed her sadness.

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