When I was little, I used to get emotionally attached to inanimate objects and they would become my friends. I had a rock collection, a stick collection, and a bottle cap collection, and they all had names and personalities. I protected them from my sisters and I never told anyone how important they were to me. There was a park I used to go to frequently and there, I was friends with a bench, one of the water fountains, and most specifically, a tree. I liked it because it was short and bent over, so I could sit under it without feeling too small. I remember leaves used to fall and I thought they were gifts from the tree, or letters, so I would take them home with me. One day I went to the park and my tree wasn’t there. I saw a sad little stump crouching on the edge of the playground. I remember feeling complete betrayal and confusion. Why would anyone chop down my tree? I felt like a family member had died. Eventually I made friends with the stump, but I never forgot my tree.