A tree is a tree

Central Park, NYC

An hour before sunset I take the ten minute walk through the park to the bench opposite my tree. A few days ago you celebrated another birthday and in a couple of weeks I shall turn older too. Even when we combine our ages my tree will be almost double the digit without giving way its age.

My tree stands between other trees planted a century ago, but have different qualities. When the Eucalyptus tree rubs leaves, a healing aroma spreads and the sweet red apple tree carpets the roots underneath.

My tree doesn’t have a name, nor does it have a distinct flavour, my tree has a voice.

The voice differs from the graffiti on the bench that carries some slang of youngsters declaring their everlasting love to one another. In fact, my tree doesn’t speak in words at all. The branches are always ready to catch the breeze that triggers the friction of the leaves, spreading an emerald message of peace. Sometimes the leaves carry the song of the ocean in them, close to where you live. Do you sometimes stand on the rock, listening for my presence? Does the spray of the ocean bring memories of our make-believe past? Are we still connected?

Today is the last time I’ll walk the hour before sunset, for the winds are changing, night falls quickly and in a couple of days the park will be closed.

After the season of snow, my emerald tree will be waiting for us, gracing us with consonance.

A tree is a tree and regardless the solstice, you will be you and I shall be here.

Photograph courtesy of Christine Bergsma