24-12-2014 // Always green, tough pointy leaves that can sting like needles when you touch them, but can be soft as a brush when you stroke them in the right direction. Like a spiky hairdo, which was hip when I was in high-school. A little fetty too, like the wax that keeps the spikes spiky and leaves stickiness on your fingers. If you would crawl under, or in between two trees – like I used to do with my brother in the forest next to the house of my grandparents, looking for secret pathways or open spots, huts or holes to hide in – they would tickle.. Like the tips of fingers that softly stroke your back and give you goosebumps that quickly spread to the top of your head and the tip of your toes, like lightening striking. Like the touch of your hand, that day when my feet were cold – in that house where we had celebrated, and were grateful to be there, together as a family, even if it was just for that day – through the blanket as you tucked them in, and after that the rest of me. Like a caterpillar in a cocoon, safe and warm in a shell, on that couch, waiting for transforming sleep to catch up on us. In that room where we would wake up the next day looking out on the garden, and see the tree the hadn’t changed a bit.. //