Everything is possible, because nothing real is ever lost.

From Alfred’s journal

The sycamore by the hardware store came down Tuesday, and I spent most of Wednesday on the fence across from the stump, feeling robbed. I nested in that tree two springs. For years I held that a thing was either here or gone, and gone was the end of the sentence. Then Switch came along the rail with a walnut he had buried last October and no memory of burying, and he dug it up anyway, by smell, from under four inches of wet leaves, and ate it in front of me without ceremony. Everything is possible, because nothing real is ever lost. I do not know yet whether that holds for a tree or only for what the tree was for; the stump is still warm-colored at the cut, and the crows have already found it.