The day after I talked about how my forest makes me strong, I became deathly ill.  Sure, it was only a minor cold, but I felt like I was dying at several points.  I did not make the full walk through the park.  Instead, I visualized the park.  I tested myself to see if I could remember every tree, shrub, and blade of grass.  I had no trouble remembering the major trees, the landmarks of the park.  The two remaining sentries by the street, and the one that was sacrificed, now lying on the ground, becoming a nurse log.  I could visualize every twist in the big maple by the Y.  The maple and fir trees smashed up against each other make a memorable image.  I could even think of the trees that were removed, for no good reason.  There are sections of the park that aren't completely visible from the trail, and I could not be certain I remembered the number and orientation of those trees exactly right. 

Some of the shrubs are just a mass, like the salal in the middle of the park.  I remembered most of the individual ocean spray plants, with their distinctive arches.  The red huckleberries are rare enough that I could think of both of them.  I know the locations of all the surviving trilliums, those that haven't been plucked and killed by thoughtless people.  The ferns are hard to remember in specific terms, since they are ubiquitous and fairly uniform.  I remembered all the little trees I planted in the landslide, trying to stabilize it, before I finally gave up on that after losing dozens of trees.  If I knew how to draw or paint, I think I could recreate a representation of the forest, although some of the proportions and exact locations might be a little off. 

Some day I will actually be deathly ill, not just sidelined with a common cold.  My beautiful dogs will probably be gone by then.  When I am alone in that hospital bed, with the noise of distant TVs and the smell of medicines and sanitizers, I will close my eyes and take a walk with my dogs through my forest.