As a child, I slept in a room with Michael. He had a crib, and I had a bed. There was a window in that room.
And out that window, there was a tree.
An old, ugly, dying tree that, for some reason, was so significant to me. It meant a lot to me. It stood out so much, I was determined to find its location.
When we moved to our current location, the tree stood outside my bedroom window, same as ever. The top had no leaves year-round, there was a huge clump of leaves at the middle, and the bottom was bare as the top. Just like before.
When I was ten, I got out my bike, glued my eyes to that tree, and biked to wherever it was, until I found the base.
That beautiful, old, dead base.
Just today, my friend (we’ll call her Janice) told me their neighbors’ tree had been cut down.
I biked to the base of my tree when I had the chance.
The tree looked…different.
I rushed home and sprinted to my bedroom. I looked out my window.
A single tear rolled down my cheek.
My tree was gone. It was so…different, seeing not my dead, bird-covered tree out my window, but instead, a blank space.
Upon further inspection, I realized the leafy green middle was still there.
When I ran back, I saw that my tree wasn’t one, but two trees.
I smiled. My tree wasn’t completely gone, after all.
I know it’s stupid. It’s just a tree. But it means a lot to me. I’ve known those trees for as long as I can remember.
I’m just glad I didn’t lose them both.