Near my childhood home stood a metasequoia forest—Grandma’s favorite place to take me. Back then, I was tiny, barely reaching the bottom of the trunks. Craning my neck, I’d stare at the metasequoias, their tall forms like green pillars piercing the sky. Grandma would wrap her rough, calloused hand around mine, guiding it to the tree bark. “Feel that?” she’d say, her voice soft. “It’s just like my hands—worn, but strong enough to hold you.” As I grew, so did the metasequoias, their trunks thickening, their crowns spreading wider. Once, a fierce rainstorm hit. I ran to the forest, heart racing, terrified the trees might topple—terrified of losing something else, just like I feared losing Grandma. But there they stood, swaying in the wind but rooted deep, their leaves glistening emerald under the downpour. Now I’m all grown up. When I visit the forest, the metasequoias still tower above me. Sunlight filters through their branches, dappling the ground. For a moment, I swear I feel Grandma’s hand in mine again, her voice echoing: “See? They’ll always be here—just like my love for you.”