Out back there is a tree. It seems as old as the ages. Withered bark encases its core like a rough grey jacket. The tree is always there…has always been there, as long as anyone can remember.
I love to spend time in the tree. I love to sit on the lowest branch and watch the quiet country as I think about experiences the tree might have had. This tree could be the first planted by settlers here. It could have witnessed war and survived while its companions did not. Hundreds of years ago, it could have shared itself with another person. Maybe they sat in the same place, sheltered by the leaves.
I use a rope to climb it. It is tall, and there are no lower branches. I reach the lowest branch and hop across branches, spiralling upward like a staircase. I reach the top and feel the wind on my face. I trace the lines of its bark with my fingers. I am lucky to witness something so peaceful in this world where war waits on the doorstep like an unwelcome guest.
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