I’m thinking about this weeping willow tree this morning. It lives in a park on the other side of the city—my favourite park in the area, one fat with memories and history.
Over the course of forty years, I’ve walked in it and wept in it, ridden a bike along its paths, cheered at my son’s baseball games, played golf, taken photographs, and done countless other things within its boundaries.
I wondered how long trees like this grand old one can live so I looked it up. The average lifespan is fifty years. She’s in the winter of her life. The thought makes me want to stop by more often.