My Tree

My tree, once full and green and unyielding, stands tall outside of my window. Red peaks through the ends of her branches, fashioning an ombré effect that looks akin to my blonde hair and brown roots. I am comforted by my spot at the window, indulging in the seriousness and lightness all at once, weeding through my many layers.

Sometimes the sun showers her rays on my tree and she glimmers brightly through spaces in my blinds. I observe her natural beauty and raw edges, her sporadic branches and their wild temperament; in turn I see my own.

My Tree perches in shadows, too, forcing her colors to dull. Like on a rainy day when I take an extra 20 minutes to leave my bed and the whole day dredges on colorlessly. I find peace in her versatility -- relating to her lack of consistency and contradictory nature. There is a familiarity that pleases me. On most days I sit on my wooden chair and drink coffee to the sounds of Magdalena Bay. At night, I’ll light a bowl and feel the cool air touch my skin. In many ways, she is a part of my routine, an ongoing observation of her evolution— in hopes to find some answers for myself too.

My spot by the window grounds me in an unavoidable truth, one that is a tad cliche. Beauty and pain exist within the same breath, competing for attention—thought it is us who bears the burden. Even when my tree is devoured by a gray bleakness, she does not change—her colors remain just as vital beneath the shadows. It is when the seasons change that she changes, too, only to be revitalized once again.

On Halloween, I learned that my next-door neighbor planted the tree with his kids. They used to laugh at the size of it; twenty years later and it’s the most radiant one on our block.

I don’t have the answers, I know I never fully will. But for now, it’s just enough to sit by the window, admire her beauty and pain, and vindicate myself of my own shadowed days.