The littlest tree in the forest belonged to me. I called her Sally and years later I would name my own dear daughter after her. She was poking up through the grass at the base of an old Oak Grandfather when I found her as I was exploring the hills and woods near our home. I was 12 years and 42 days old; I know exactly because I had been determined to count each day to my next birthday for I was convinced that would be the year I finally got a pony.
Finding Sally was so accidental I nearly crushed her in doing so. I had been climbing absently up the gnarled trunk of the Oak with my eyes more on a delightfully fuzzy caterpita' (as I called them for far too long) than on the tree, and I slipped, sliding all the way to the bottom and onto my side. Before I could consider hurting or crying, I spotted the little branches sticking magically up through the shady grass in front of me.
Oh and what magic! Before my eyes was a wonderous world in which I was the size of the sun itself and a lone tree spread its lopsided roof of leaves out over the overgrown hillside. The old oak's leaves rustled as a breeze whiffed by and a sliver of sun crossed my cheek and bathed my little kingdom in gold.
"Why hello," I said in a voice just as golden, "I think we are to be wonderful friends."