She loved the way the lane and her house were situated at the end of a narrow blacktop road called Union. At the entrance of the property was an enormous cottonwood tree, at the top of which Levi often sat reading his books. The cottonwood had to be the biggest tree in the world; certainly bigger than any Justice had seen. Slowing to pass it, she looked up from under thousands of leaves and tens upon tens of stretching branches. You grand, you tall woman, she thought. Better than a hundred and fifty years old, I bet. Levi had said the cottonwood was older than a century, but he hadn’t said it was a woman. Little kids of long ago making toys of your leaves. He’d told her that Indians of past centuries had to have lived close to the tree. “Find a cottonwood,” he’d said, “and you’ll find fresh, running water, good for cooking and drinking.” Maybe back then, she thought. But there was no running water on the property now. Cottonwoman forever stands alone. You’ll find a black walnut tree nearby to stand as tall as she.
