Trees

There used to be one tree outside my window. I was fascinated by the tree, although it was not particularly notable in any regard other than in my head. I watched the tree day after day. If I looked out the window, I would see it.

As seasons passed, the tree changed. In spring, it often felt like the tree was blossoming seemingly overnight. Green leaves quickly emerged. Spring progressed, summer came. The days got warmer. The green was luscious when the sun shone on it. I watched the tree with intrigue. When autumn came, the leaves turned red; they fell, slowly, then almost all at once. Winter came and there were no leaves.

I looked forward to the day when I would see small white buds again. I knew those buds marked that we were on the cusp of spring. Warmer weather was to come.

During the pandemic, this tree was always there. No matter how much time I spent indoors, I knew the tree was always there, graceful in its existence. It was, in a way, my friend, even though I never explicitly uttered that sentiment.

Now, as I look out to a new view, I see more trees. I have been watching with interest as they become more green. Early on in the year, I could take my glasses off to give a false impression of spring (Who said you needed rose-tinted glasses to see what you want?). As the cold receded, the leaves became more green. There are some trees growing red leaves, too.

As I write, I’m looking out onto numerous trees. The sun is shining in the background. I cannot see a cloud in the sky. When I’m bored, I like to look at the trees. I have become attuned to their change from bare — a state that makes me feel melancholy — to having many leaves. The transition is not yet done. Spring has only just begun.