The tree that defines me

When I was little, we lived in Philly. Seven hours from where we live now, eight counting the time allotted for rest stops. And a little ways down the sidewalk from our house was this tree.

At that time, I was anywhere between ages two and five, I think. I was young. Really young. Barely more than a toddler.

So, anyway, I would get upset, sometimes. Angry at my brother, frustrated at my cousin, et cetera - mostly petty little kid stuff. I think I felt smothered in a way because we lived so close to all our relatives back then and there wasn't a lot of breathing room for me, and that's always been something I care about - taking breaks. 

So, the tree. I would run to it when I got in one of my moods. I don't know why. I guess my little self just felt the impulse to run, and I was drawn to the tree. I would go up to that tree and climb it, and sit up there, until I felt like I could come back down. Almost every time, I turned to it. I don't know why I felt so drawn to it. This old, gnarly tree with its knotted bark and coarse roots, stooped low enough for a little kid to climb it, just felt so comforting to me.

We moved away when I was five, all the way up to Vermont, which is where we are now, of course. We visit family back in Philly sometimes to see our family there, and I requested to stop by our old house recently, just to see if that tree - my tree - was still there.

It wasn't.

A stump replaced where the old tree used to stand, hunched over but proud, twisted but beautiful in its own way.

My amazing tree - the tree that had given me an escape when I most needed it - was gone.

This entry is deeply personal to me, and I don't know why I haven't written it before. I just miss it. I miss the solace of me and my tree amid the hustle and bustle of Chestnut Hill. Here in Vermont, there are tons of trees. Forests. I tried to find another tree to talk to, to love, to hold, and yet, nothing.

My tree is irreplaceable.

I guess I wrote this as an ode to it, as the holiday season comes and goes, even if it seems silly, so I never forget what that tree did for me.