“Your favourite tree”
Outside the living room window of the house I grew up in, there is a large, majestic magnolia tree.
It sits, about as tall as the house, if not taller, and is clad year-round in big, thick leaves of a deep green shade. And when it flowers, it provides huge creamy white blossoms that smell delightful. It’s one of the scents I associate with home. Each bloom was big enough fill one of the pewter bowls my Mom used for flowers, poised, elegant.
My baby brother was christened under that tree. In fact, there are probably many memories of the sort stored in its branches. Whispers of times gone by tangled among the leaves.
Ever since we first moved to the house, the tree has had one branch that hung lower than all the rest. It was shaped in such a way that there was a dip in its length that was only just reachable for my little six-year-old hands. The game with this branch was to catch it with my hands, pull it down as far as I could, and then wrap my legs around it, too, like a monkey. From there I would hang, staring at the world upside-down, until a dog, floating on its back, would waddle towards me and lick my topsy-turvy face until I had no choice but to come down.
That’s my magnolia memory tree. My favourite tree.