When my father came for a visit, we walked together at Jacks Peak Park, a place I love and where I mostly walk. He did what I never would in a forest: he yelled at the top of his lungs. He was angry and fearful about what life comes down to when its end draws near. The boom of his voice made me feel protective of the forest, made me want to shelter it from his gruff sound. I tell you, the tree branches quivered. Why hadn’t he saved his rant for my kitchen table? Though I wish he’d chosen another location, the boundless space gave him the room he needed to let go of a bit of his fear, for that is what his anger hid. After leaving the park, my father’s spirit was a whole lot lighter.