My fathered planted a weeping willow tree in the backyard of 1216 Ave. K North in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada, when we bought the house in 1959. The tree grew as my brother and I walked to Henry Kelsey public school; its branches grew and touched the grass. We hid beneath the branches and played in a fantasy world.
The branches had to be picked up before we mowed the lawn when we were in high school.
I could see the tree from the kitchen window as my mother washed the dishes and my brother and I dried.
The tree was there when my mother and father divorced and it was there when I left home.
The tree grew up with me.
In 1997 I came home to visit my father in the house I grew up in; he lived there with his wife and his two dogs, Sally and Maggie.
The tree had been cut down. There was no shade on the lawn, no branches to pick up.
My daughter didn’t get to meet the tree. The tree of my childhood.
Four months later at Thanksgiving, my stepmother called me, “Your father has cancer. Please come home for Christmas.”
We came home. My husband, my child and I.
He died on March 17th, 1998. The tree and my father were both dead.
Last year I found out I had cancer. Skin cancer, malignant melanoma. The cancer was contained.
I planted a tree in my backyard. For me and my dad. A Canadian Maple.
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Writing for five minutes, unedited,with the word prompt, Tree, with Lisa-Jo Baker at Five Minute Friday.
Do you have a tree you grew up with? Please tell me in the comments, I would love to chat.
