Somewhere along the line the forest had become a physical manifestation of our friendship. The love that we held for one another.

Of course at the time it was just our forest.

I remember it having distinct areas, like neighbourhoods or city blocks. We created a map once, thick card, burnt edges, like pirates parading as colonists. And as such we each had our own kingdom to rule and call our own.

The old pine plantation was where we had pinecone fights, and made needle angels. I loved it so much I called it my kingdom. Leah had the songbird kingdom, filled with hollow oaks and bright music.

We called Chris’s kingdom the ruin. Long abandoned cars and remnants of a factory mill impregnated the Earth with rusted iron, making it the perfect place for ghost stories or hide and seek.

Marie chose the rolling hills as her kingdom. She lived for gymnastics. The soft grass cushioned her fall, and made for excellent tumbling practice.

Charlotte made her kingdom in the wetlands and swamp, which quickly became our convene point. In the summers we would have mud fights and swim through boggy river. While during colder months we set up traps for the yabbies to cook and eat by our fire.

Now I am old by my eleven year old standards and I’ve come to visit my backwater town. It’s so quiet I almost miss the sight of our forest. Or lack there of.

Now that remains is only black, burnt and brandished.