My Special Place: My Tree and My Childhood (Short Memoir)

Back when I was in Canada, my family and I lived in a house. A real house with a second floor, three bathrooms, five bedrooms and an attic. This was a big deal to me because I lived in a small apartment before moving. For the first time in our lives, my sister and I could play hide and seek, and that was the only game we played. I was eight-years-old at the time, my sister was three. We ran around all day long trying to catch each other.

But despite the bedrooms and the huge living room, the bathrooms and the attic, my favorite place on entire property was under the apple tree in the backyard. It was a gorgeous tree, with glossy leaves nearly as big as my palms (I had small hands back then). It was planted by the previous owner of the house, and it was the only tall tree in the yard. With a smooth, light brown bark, it was at least twice as tall as I was. My sister had to sit on my shoulders just to touch the leaves. It was a magnificent and beautiful thing.

One day, I watched a Narnia movie and saw how the characters talked to the trees. Being a child, I believed in nearly everything that happened in movies. I often imagined my own little scenarios of my Buzz Lightyear and Woody running around my room and going on adventures while I was at school. So after I watched Narnia, I tried talking to my tree. An apple fell and the leaves rustled. Somehow, in ways that I can no longer comprehend, I managed to transform the sound of leaves rustling and the time of apples falling into a language that no one else could hope to understand. After that, the tree became my friend. I told it all of my troubles. If someone took my basketball, the first thing I would do was go sit under the tree. I didn’t speak out loud, instead, I would think about my troubles and pretend that some spirit inside the tree could hear me. Many times, the tree would have no reaction, but that was okay. It gave me a reason to think about my troubles, and I would end up realizing that it’s no big deal.

In the summer, the tree was my place of relaxation. If I ever wanted to take a break from a game of tag with my sister, I would sit under the tree. The leaves gave me protection from the hot sun and allowed for a breeze to blow through. My sister joined me sometimes, but would get bored easily and walk back into the house. The combination of the shade, the breeze and the scent of dandelions was so comfortable and relaxing that it felt like I was in a dream. It was my special place, and I could sit there all day and never get bored.

During fall, I would still go out to the tree with a light jacket and spend most of my free time there. There, I dove into the world of “Calvin and Hobbes” a comic strip series by Bill Watterson. They were my favorite anthologies of all time. It was about a young boy with his stuffed tiger using his imagination to bring ordinary things to life. Now, looking back, I feel as if I wanted to be like Calvin; to never grow up and to always see life where life doesn’t exist. They were my childhood. Like me, Calvin had an imaginary friend, and I felt as if I was there with them in every adventure they had. That is, me and my tree.

Throughout Autumn, the leaves would fall like splatters of paint, splashing on to the grass. It was as if someone took gold, red and orange paint and randomly flicked them all over the yard. These natural fireworks brought the whole place to life and I felt as if I lived in a Crayola box. Often, I found myself raking the leaves without being asked, since it didn’t feel like a chore, more like helping out a friend. Fall was also the time when the apples ripened. These beautiful rubies were redder than my mother’s best lipstick and as smooth as the television screen. Whenever I took a bite, the flavours exploded and danced in my mouth. In my opinion, the apples from my tree tasted better than anything. It became my source of food between meals.

Two years later, I had to move, for reasons I didn’t know nor cared about. I had friends here, but most importantly, I had my tree. The day before I left, I went to the tree to silently say goodbye. I could reach for the apples on my own now, and grabbed one that was looked like it weighed a ton. I slowly ate the apple and buried the core a feet meters away. Afterwards, I rested my hand on the trunk for a long time. Minutes felt like hours, and eventually, my mom called me back into the house. I sighed and walked away slowly, not looking back.

Three years after we moved, we drove near my old neighborhood to visit an old friend. It brought back many valuable memories. Life went on after we moved and I had almost forgotten about the tree by then. The car drove past our old house and I looked over my shoulder. I saw a young tree swaying to the breeze, resting in the shade of a larger one like I did many years ago. I smiled, at least my tree has a friend.