Given Tree / by Michael Arthur

Alden and I were talking about trees the other day. He has a lot to say about pretty much everything, although being pre-linguistic at his tender age, I can't really pretend to know his take on a given subject. I do know his passion knows no bounds.

Anyway, I was telling him about the now virtually gone subtlety of weather and wishing that he could have seen a spring and winter like the ones I used to know when I was a kid. I was wishing he could have met my mom and seen the weeping willow at the top of the hill by my grandmother's house. I was remembering the past in a bittersweet way, wishing it wasn't gone so he'd know what I knew and why I knew it.

And he smiled because everything is new to him, especially his memories. . .