The Tree

By Beth

It was a tree.
Just a tree.
A simple thing, really.
There are millions out there in the world. So you would think it’s nothing special … I guess it wasn’t. Not to you. Not to your friends, your family. Even the people closest to me had no idea why I flung such adoration at it.
It was a willow, the base mostly wide and tall, with a couple of big sturdy branches, perfect to sit in, huddled with a book notepad or sketchbook. The branches which all willows have offered perfect privacy, and secrecy from anyone who might be searching for me - not that people normally looked for me. Most of the time, my lack of … existence barely mattered for anyone. I guess I was like a shadow: a silent presence, so easily overlooked. The long vines draped down, trailing into the river that backed my family’s property in North-East England.
I don’t remember when I first found the tree. All I remember is that it was always there to catch me when I fell, watching my journey through childhood, picking me up and planting me on my feet… wrapping me up for a hug in it’s long, tendril-like branches. Or, in summer, throw me laughingly into the river, sending me swimming back to the banks.
For some time, it was my only friend. Other times, my best friend A sibling … sometimes, just simply, a friend.
No matter how miserable or joyful I felt when I first crossed the field, my spirits were always lifted by the tree: it’s existence, simply.
I remember running across the field, all the way from the house, slipping down the river banks, throwing myself into the tree and scrambling up into it’s wooden embrace, offering relief from whatever situation was currently ailing me. I was only six then.
At the age of eight, I have a very strong memory of walking straight from school to the tree, fighting back tears. I hung my bag on one of the branches, half-hoping that it would fall into the river, and get carried away by the current, before settling into a nook, like a little curled up ball. That was the day my best friend moved away.
Winter.
Ten years old.
Snow covered the ground; my breath turned to mist in the air. I was rugged up in jackets, scarves (I think I was actually wearing three of them…), gloves and a beanie. I must’ve had at least four pairs of socks on, even over my heavy boots. And yet, I did not dare leave my tree. There was a book in my chubbily gloved hands. Nowhere else I’d rather be (my house was filled with siblings, cousins and various relatives visiting for Christmas). Even with my ears falling off from the cold.
On the last day of Primary, School, (twelve years old), I sat in the tree – relieved, cheerful, and yet the memories were still flashing by my eyes, for once more real than the river, the leaves tickling my face. For once, I was elsewhere … then I laughed, and reminded myself that I had a whole Primary School-less future ahead of me.
Years passed, more than half of my days spent in the tree – I read, I wrote, I sat and thought, I brought my iPod out and listened to music. The one thing I didn’t do in the tree is bring other people there. Nobody but me was allowed underneath the dangling bows of the tree. Come to think of it, I don’t even think anyone knew where I went when I left the house, running across the meadow. I didn’t try to keep it secret … I just did, I guess.
Eventually, I moved out … but I was careful not to buy a home too far away, so that I could visit the tree on weekends, which quickly turned into visiting the tree every day, almost leading me to move back in with my parents … but soon I got married, I had children, and my parents got old. Still I made it my goal to spend at least an hour in the tree every week.
Nobody knew.

Eventually, my parents got old … they passed away. After the funeral, I let my husband take my two children home, and then ran almost all the way to my old house, to the tree, where I sat in a huddle as the sun set, slipping away over the horizon, sneaking away and leaving me with darkness. The property would one day have to get bought – then what? Maybe I could buy it … but no, the town life was a million times easier, and the property would be far too expensive for just a tree.
And so I let it get bought, told me it was simply a tree, I was a mother, a grown woman, anything but a child. A tree, honestly.
I didn’t see the tree for sixty years. I haven’t seen it until now. Now, I am a grandmother, a widow, ancient, with almost a 50/50 chance of dying the next day. Crossing the field to visit this tree was as difficult as it would have been to climb Mount Everest at the age of 20. But I had to do this. The current land owners had just had a development plan passed to build a bridge crossing the river, cutting through the row of willows lining the banks, and, in the process, destroying mine. There are no means of protest, the plan has been passed and the machinery would be arriving next week. I patted the trunk gently, knowing that both me and my best friend would be dying very soon.