This special tree means so much to me . . .
BY LYNDA FRANKLIN
IT’S strange how different the park looks this time of day. It’s six a.m. and already the sky is opening up in pale gold streaks.
Soon the dog walkers will appear. People will stroll and children will play.
The silence of this beautiful early morning will fade into bustle and busyness but, for the moment, it’s still and quiet and all mine.
I’m sitting on the bench that looks over the playing field.
To my right is the playground. The bins are empty and the ground clear of debris.
The field is edged with lines of trees, mostly thin and spindly, but there are a few struggling to thicken and survive the constant climbing and ball throwing.
To my left, in all its glory, is Old Tree, and if it had designed itself it could not have done any better.
It has a lovely wide trunk and branches that reach out in perfect symmetry, forming the classic round shape a child would draw.
The leaves are dark green, soaking in the sunshine and shining with what always seems to be pure joy.
Old Tree is a happy tree.
It stands on its own, unbothered by park users, respected as the patriarch of the park.
I feel as if I know Old Tree. We are friends. We’ve seen a lot together over the years, and I could not start this day in any other way.
It would be wrong to go and not say goodbye.
The bench gives me a perfect view of this statuesque wonder of nature and the vast sky above, with no buildings to block or interfere with its perfect lines.
It stands like a rock, a sense of calm and reassurance in a manic world.
Or so it has seemed to me over many years.
I don’t love Old Tree for the days spent watching my children running around, or the times I bumped into friends and neighbours and stood chatting in its shadow.
I don’t love it for the picnics shared under the green canopy or welcome shade on sweltering hot days.
I love it for the days I was alone.
I love it for letting me sit and think and wonder.
It gave me peace when I needed it, soaked up my worries and listened while I spoke to it in my head.
Old Tree was the first to know I was pregnant, and the first to know I’d lost my longed-for baby.
I sat here a lot then, staring at Old Tree’s beauty, reassured somehow that everything would work out.
The following year Old Tree had never looked better, and my head was bursting with h
