The day had come down in a torrent of light and color, like rain against the cabin's old windows. I found myself tracing the lines of tree bark with a weary finger, its grooves and knots an atlas of a life spent standing firm against the tempests.

This morning, as the sun broke through the shroud of dawn, I walked into the woods. The damp earth received my steps as if whispering a secret through each footfall. The trees, they stood tall, sentinels of time, their bark rough and ridged, like the years of a man's life laid bare for the world to see.

I stopped at the elder tree, its skin etched deep with the wisdom of the forest. My hand rested upon it, and in that touch, I felt a kinship, an understanding that life—my life—was like this bark. Each crevice was a possibility, a path taken or untaken, every knot a choice made, for better or worse.

I thought of her then, Marianne. Her laughter had once filled the spaces between the trees, a melody that the birds had seemed to echo. The roughness of the bark reminded me of the coarseness in her voice that final day, the day when the possibilities of 'us' had withered like autumn leaves.

The bark was not just the armor of the tree but a testament to its growth, each layer a year of struggle and triumph. My fingers traced the patterns, and I found solace in their complexity. Life wasn't meant to be smooth or unblemished. It was meant to be lived, weathered by joy and sorrow.