I am walking with Danielle on the frosted dirt of Woodland Road in January, sharing nostalgia for landscapes that no longer exist in a landscape that never has existed. We are returning from a giant supermarket that has appeared at the corner of Woodland and… that road that leads to High Rock, where the Triders used to live.
Coming up the hill into the woods, just past what once was Lesley’s house, we enter a kind of cathedral of fallen trees, of old snow on bare branches. And the dead trees show us a religious vision: a montage of holographic crosses dripping blood and beams of dust and snow-filtered light and scenes of ruin.
I criticize it.
“It started out well, but that’s just over the top.”
We walk on.