Grace McGowan ’26
There was an oak tree at the end of Azalea Lane. It had been there for as long as anyone could remember. Its branches were sturdy; the tree was strong and beautiful throughout winter and summer, storm and calm, night and day.
When it was warm, we would skip down the dirt road, hand in hand, while birds chirped and a breeze blew through our hair. We would have tea parties and picnics under the wide canopy of the oak tree. When it was cold, our boots would crunch in the snow as we trudged to the tree, our cheeks pink. We would wrap a scarf around its trunk and make snow angels a few feet away. We even ran to it in the pouring rain, coming back from it drenched.
The tree was where our best memories were made: huddling under a threadbare blanket, our backs against the trunk, staring up at the sky as it started to snow; hanging upside down from the branches, our hands clasped tightly together, hair hanging, the feeling of being slightly nauseous.
It was where our childhood was nurtured and protected in cradled arms. Laughter was plentiful among the branches, from small giggles to loud, suffocating laughs where you can’t breathe. There were lots of smiles, the kind that were like home.
There were tears too, the kind that only left emptiness in their wake. Like us, the oak tree held both the good and the bad.
We couldn’t stay there forever, but that’s not what mattered. What was important was that we were there, in the moment, laughing and crying and smiling, and most important of all, we were together.
We noticed the tree dying slowly, branches falling, leaves withering, and trunk graying. On the day the oak tree was finally cut down, we stood and watched, hand-in-hand. It fell. Our hands slipped from each other’s, and we went our separate ways.