The Turning

I’ve called my granddaughter, the one who enjoys my stories the most, to join me this afternoon; there is one story I would like to tell to her, and to my favorite tree – a big one with branches cascading downward into a canopy, and sporting a low lying branch one can comfortably sit or even sleep on. It is rather funny looking and its leaves are always rustling in the wind. Whenever I go there, I take the outside route that I always prefer: not through the house and out the backdoor, but through the narrow path at the right side of the house into the old play area at the back, where, if one comes by on a sunny afternoon, one will be greeted by the sight of kids running under soft sunlight streaming down through branches, the ground mottled with shadows, and a drizzling of leaves to welcome me.

I still visit them, our trees. I would sit underneath them for hours on end to bask in their presence, to accept the quiet understanding and comfort they offer when I need it, or to listen for the secrets that only they can smile about.

The trees always welcome me back.

“You’re looking a fine green today, hija,” he said as he dragged himself out of the front door and onto the porch.

“You should sun yourself here, Lolo.”

“Thank you, hija, but I’ve already had my share of the sun earlier,” he replied as he sat in his big chair.

Things remained normal in our part of town that day. A friend, fresh from a trip outside the country, was back to selling his trinkets right outside his house. Another neighbor, a very interesting old pair and among our very good friends, had just gotten themselves a cute little pup that they showed me a day earlier when my grandpa and I went to visit. They waved as they passed. The street was littered with people who were out for a walk on that lazy Saturday afternoon.

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