When I encounter a tree in the forest with a gaping hole in its aged trunk or a vine encircling its girth up into the canopy, squeezing out its breath — a tree for one reason or another clinging to life or patiently enduring — that tree, whether it be oak, pine, maple, ash or birch, is always female to me.
This is what Lily is meant to do. This is what she’s enacting when, with bright eyes, she eagerly offers us her plush green duck toy, then tugs back against our grip, shaking and snarling.
