The Tree

There’s a big Douglas Fur outside our window. It’s roots are tangled up with other tree’s roots. This is a good thing since the big tree is perched on a mound of dirt left over from excavation done years ago before our house was built.

I could see my son, Guy, swinging on the rope I’d tied to a limb. For a moment he was there – laughing and telling me to watch as he jumped out, swung around the tree, and then jumped out and swung back.

He was a boy then, 20 years ago, but I could see him clearly. My boy. A tree. A memory.