The tree was planted on the day she was born. Tiny, like her. Swaddled in wire to help it grow straight and tall, protected. The tree grew much faster than she did. Her first memory of it was from the ground. Being placed on a blanket in a small circle of shade and looking up at light filtered through tender leaves and new-born blossoms.
When she grew a little older, it became her safe place, the home base during games. It was where she giggled over secrets with her friends, had picnic lunches, read her books and fell into a drowsy world that invited imagination and naps. No matter the time of year or the season, the tree was a welcoming sanctuary.
The tree was a hide-away. She could disappear behind the curtain of leaves, held in strong arms. She would sit for hours in the branches, still and listening to the birds and the hum of bees. It was a place where stories were born and decisions made.
She had her first kiss under that tree and then a little later, was married there. She cried beneath that tree. She introduced her children and then, her children's children to the secrets of the tree. She told them stories under the branches, stretched out in the shade on a soft blanket. She taught them to quietly listen to the sound of the earth turning.
Then, before she realized it, there was no one left with whom to share her secrets. No more stories left to tell, the tree her last friend. So, one day she lowered herself gently to the ground, settled back against the gnarled trunk and closed her eyes. The last thing she heard was music. The melody of the wind soughing through the leaves, like a deep sigh. The murmur of life.
[ The poet Lerrnst - the word Tree. This is another case of not feeling I've done justice to his word :) There are some truths here and there is such a tree. ]