Abigail Ahlberg

There is a stand of aspen trees that grows along a road near my childhood home. In the northern Midwest, we call them “popple” trees. Their branches reach for the sky, and on a crisp winter day, they seem to touch the crystalline blue. I measure my life by that stretch of popple. Their distinctive markings speak to me as individual personalities, though not necessarily as human. I have been captivated by their language since I was small, and every time I return home, they speak to me still. They ground me, and serve as a visceral reminder of the place that I am from.