The Walnut Tree
In my grandparent’s backyard, there is a huge walnut tree containing two trunks at its base—I have never understood whether it was only one tree or two, planted right next to each other. It is as if someone has cut the tree into two unequal pieces with a huge sword. If I wrap my arms around the thicker half of the tree, my hands barely touch each other. Some of the branches that are grown out of the thinner trunk crossed over to the neighbor’s house, who is always complaining about the black spots that the walnuts leave on their stoned yard. Therefore, in order to prevent the neighbor’s execration, my grandfather has to climb a 12 foot ladder to cut all the branches that are breaking into the neighbor’s territory just before those green balls decide to loosen up their ties with the tree. It is clearly seen that people get speechless when the beauty of trees hug their soul; however, I shudder to the point of tears each time I look between the branches of this tree. The tree’s shadow is normally the place to relax for everyone, but for me the tree’s shadow is the reminder of the coldness and the darkness of possible death. For me the cool morning breeze which blows under its shadow is more like thorns that slightly wound me. Each time I lay back on these chairs, the stunning green view of the tree turns all black and fear conquers every inch of my body. The tree, which is the example of corpulence and life, for me is the statue of weakness and death. A memory goes back to when I had just turned thirteen. This was about the time that I got my first official reputation of being a “responsible baby-sitter” among my relatives. Whenever there was a party, all the moms would take their little babies of different ages to my room, so I could watch their children, while they were enjoying the party. I used my God-given talent to establish a decent connection with children and tried to create the same warm and peaceful environment that they felt in their...
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