A Story of a Tree

My wife (then girlfriend) and I used to go for walks around the neighbourhood whenever she visited me in my hometown of Windsor.  We'd walk down a few blocks, through Willistead Park and around the old church behind it before weaving back down some streets with older, beautiful houses with a decidedly Germanic flair to their architecture.  On the far side of that church was a very old tree, happily taking up the relatively thin strip of grass between the sidewalk and the street.  There was something special about that tree; it had personality and, my wife decided on our first trip past it, it needed a hug.  Every walk after that, while the specific route would change each time, we made sure that our wanderings brought us to that tree so that we could say hi to it.

The walks became less frequent after I moved to the U.S. to marry her as our visits to my hometown became less frequent, but we still try to fit it in when we can.  The tree, however, is no longer there; cut down not too long after I left town.  We were saddened when we first came around that corner and realized that it was gone, not even a stump remaining, but it left us a gift:  A thin piece of root had been left exposed.  We cut off that root, took it with us and, eventually (being Pagan, as we are), she decorated it and turned it into a wand.  We still have it, and there's still power in it... and when we take our walks, we still pass by where that tree used to stand so majestically.  The tree is still there, though it can't be seen with the eyes; a presence as old and strong as that one is not erased from this Earth so easily, especially when it has friends who still come by now and then to remind it that it's there.