Word count: 640
The Weeping Willow Tree
My tree was down the hill from my grandparent’s house in North Carolina. The tree I called mine was a gigantic weeping willow. It was my place to where I could be alone, where reality could be left behind, and where I could daydream. This massive weeping willow tree was my private place where I could be all alone. It seemed to stretch up to the sky, letting the light come through in shafts through a canopy of green leaves, and long skinny branches joined together to make a green umbrella. There are all shades of green and browns, with the sun teasing in and out of the branches, and leaves creating yet more beautiful hues. I remember the way carpet of soft green grass felt under my bare feet, the sounds of cracking twigs. Once in a while, if I listened carefully a rustle of little creatures scurrying back and forth. From time to time I would catch a glimpse of a little brown or gray bushy tail. He would stop along his way and wonder at the strange almost gauche thing called man that was either reading, singing or playing music in its territory. This is where my realism stopped. The tree gave me a place where I could leave reality behind, no homework, no one telling me what to do, or to quiet down. I would bring a wicker picnic basket lined with red and white checked cloth filled with goodies to entertain me. Its usual contents included books, tapes, and a tape recorder. I read captivating books that were compelling, inspirational, thrilling, and some that were sad that could bring me to tears. My books took me places reality never could. I could travel to faraway places. I would sing with the tapes to the top of my lungs and dance till I was exhausted. Under my tree I could be a famous rock star. No one could hear or see to judge me. It was the most delightful place for a dreamer. It was quite easy to daydream under the weeping willow tree. My world under the tree was like being in a snow globe, safe and...
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