We buried it ceremoniously among the weathered roots of the tree with the vague hope that one day it would resurrect itself.

After midnight movies in the Square or our occasional party hopping tours, my roommates and I would leisurely stroll home and find groups of Holworthians lingering on the front steps or under the tree.

We stopped and joked and laughed and talked nonsense with these people with whom we had become great friends in just a few short months.

One night Sonya walked over to our tree to make a routine check for pepper plant sprouts. But this time she started hugging it.

Impulsively, I joined her in embracing the massive trunk. Even with our arms encircling its wonderful girth, our fingertips barely touched.

And though the trunk's rough, wrinkled bark pressed into our chests, our stomachs, our knees, we stayed there for a long time.