A woman told me about two trees where she and her husband like to walk in the woods of North Carolina. An oak curls its trunk around a pine tree as if she is a dancer inviting him to play. The pine is straight and tall, like a soldier. She is spontaneous, and identifies with the first, while her husband is steady. 

At the base there is a gap between their trunks, just wide enough for them to squeeze through. But above their heads the trees intertwine, such that they fuse together in places. 

The trees have been side by side for a long time. 

On days when my friend is angry, or distressed in her marriage she heads for the trail. At the knob of the hill she spies them. Once she is nestled in between the trunks, she speaks her mind. Rails against the injustice. Whines a little. 

The trees listen. 

Then she is ready to pray. Words of acceptance, and compassion. Willingness to bend but not break. The breeze carries her words up and away even as it brushes across her wet cheeks. 

Thirty years ago she and her husband planted their own saplings on their property. Fruit bearing, and Scottish pines for Christmases yet to come. It was important, they knew, to give each enough room to spread their roots. To insure their fair share of soil and rain. Yet the two trees in the forest somehow manage even in their cramped space. 

One year there was a string of storms. Trees much larger than their favorites had been felled by eighty mile an hour winds. Anxiously they waited until the skies were clear to check on the pair. 

As the clouds cleared the dusky silhouette showed that they were still standing. She wonders if their intertwined roots helped fortify them against the blustering gales.