The forest was still that day.

Not silent; the world was never, no matter what the city-born would have you believe, silent. The trees made their own noise, the animals theirs, the insects their own. The light breeze touched them all, and the hint of rain brushed over them. Quiet, yes, by the standards of the city’s cacophony, but never silent.

But still… that, the forest was. The wind did not rock anything but the smallest twigs. The earth did not shake or shift. The trees stood, as they had stood for aeons, as they would continue to stand, still, when everything else had fallen.

The trees were still there. Still there, much the same they had been when she was a child. Still taller than her, when everyone else had grown short. Still wide enough that she couldn’t wrap her arms around the biggest of them, when sometimes it seemed as if she was holding onto everything. Still quiet, if not silent, and still standing, strong enough to hold her when she leaned, strong enough to cradle her in their branches.

She leaned against Grandmother Oak, the oldest, the quietest, the still-est in all its meanings. She had never failed to find peace here. She had never failed to find strength in the old tree’s solidity, never failed to find a moment of quiet and relaxation leaning against her smooth bark.

And today, today in the quiet of the peaceful day, far from the noise of the city, she did so, again. Still.

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