My closest companion was a sycamore tree.

It stood proudly at the entrance of Glenmore Trail, housing the robins and finches that sought shelter. Its mighty branches extended to either direction, ready to embrace the curious children of our little town. Its leaves shaded me from the beaming sun and the tears of the clouds, and its shadows were cast in my mind for eternity. I imagined that the roots grew far and wide— how else could such a thing have stood so long in Glenmore?

Whenever I let my thoughts meander, they always led me back to the tree. Its birds woke me each morning, and the crickets that lived amidst its roots sang me to sleep each night. Its limbs guided the winds’ whispers into my ears. Its presence was fixed to my soul’s forest floor.

Even through the changing seasons, it kept me company. It blossomed in the spring, fostering newborn critters. Rays of summer sunlight were captured by its leaves and nourished my friend’s ancient body. As fall approached, its leaves transformed from the usual vibrant green to warmer, sultry hues. In the depths of winter, it shamelessly grew, appearing as mighty as the evergreens that attempted to mock its bareness. Behind their envious laughs, they knew they could not stand as proud as my sweet sycamore.

After many years, I came back to visit Glenmore. The air was strangely familiar; it felt like home. I strolled through the town and reminisced through the old trail. As I reached the end, I spotted a stump where my sycamore tree was supposed to live forevermore.